THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 


BEQUEST  OF 

Alice  R.  Hilgard 


/  .  - 


/*-< 


FISHERMAN'S  LUCK 


"An  encourag^er  of  indolence." 


Copyright,  1899,  ty 
Charles  Scribner's.  Sons 


Published  October,  1899    Reprinted  November,  1899 

December,  1899;  January,  1900;  February,  1900 

September,  1900;  September,  1901 

November,  1902; 
Walton  Edition,  limited  to  150  copies,  November,  1899 


SIFT 

OtA- 


DEDICATION 

TO  MY  LADY 
GRAYGOWN 


HEKE 

is  the  basket ; 
I  bring  it  home  to  you. 
There  are  no  great  fish  in  it. 
But  perhaps  there  may  be  a  little  one,  here  or 
there,   to   your   taste.      And   there   are   a   few 
shining  pebbles  from  the  bed  of  the  brook,  and 
a  few  ferns  from  the  cool,  green  woods,  and  a 
few  wild  flowers  from  the  places  that  you  remem 
ber.     I  would  fain  console  you,  if  I  could,  for 
the  hardship  of  having  married  an  angler :  a  man 
who  relapses  into  his  mania  with  the  return  of 
every  spring,  and  never  sees  a  little  river  with 
out  wishing  to  fish  in  it.     But  after  all,  we  have 
had  good  times  together  as  we  have  followed  the 
stream  of  life  towards  the  sea.     And  we  have 
passed  through   the  dark   days  without   losing 
heart,  because  we  were  comrades.     So  let  this 
book  tell  you  one  thing  that  is  certain. 
In  all  the  life  of  your  fisherman 
the  best  piece  of  luck 
is  just 

YOU. 


M865525 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

I.  FISHERMAN'S  LUCK 1 

II.  THE  THRILLING  MOMENT        ....  33 

III.  TALKABILITY    .......  47 

IV.  A  WILD  STRAWBERRY    .                 .        .        .  71 
V.   LOVERS  AND  LANDSCAPE        ....  91 

VI.  A  FATAL  SUCCESS .107 

VII.   FISHING  IN  BOOKS   .        .        .        .        .        .  125 

VIII.  A  NORWEGIAN  HONEYMOON  ....  149 

IX.  WHO  OWNS  THE  MOUNTAINS?        ...  171 

X.  A  LAZY,  IDLE  BROOK     .        .        .        .        .  181 

XI.  THE  OPEN  FHIE       ......  205 

XII.  A  SLUMBER  SONG    .        .        .  235 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

TO  PACK 
PACB 

"AN  ENCOURAGER  OF  INDOLENCE"     .      Frontispiece 
"  THE  LITTLE  SUBURBAN  BOYS  WITH  THEIR  STRINGS 

AND  PIN-HOOKS" 8 

"THE  SITUATION  WAS  NOT  WITHOUT   ITS  EMBAR 
RASSMENTS"    44 

"NATURE  GAVE  ME  HER  SILENT  ANSWER"    .       .  76 
"FALLING  IN  LOVE  IN  THE  GOOD  OLD-FASHIONED 

WAY" 104 

"  WALTON  WAS  A  MAN  so  PEACEFUL  AND  CONTENTED  "  132 

"LORNA  DOONE'S  BROOK" 146 

"THE  BEWITCHED  CRAGS  OF  THE  ROMSDAL"   .       .  l6o 

"SKOGSTAD  IS  A  SOLITARY  FARM-HOUSE"      .       .  164 

"THE  WHOLE  FRANCONIA  RANGE  OF  HILLS"  .       .  174 

"A  LITTLE  RIVER  IN  LABRADOR"  ....  222 

"THE  LITTLE  FRIENDSHIP-FIRE"        ....  226 

"  COME  TO  ANCHOR,  LITTLE  BOATIE  "...  238 


FISHERMAN'S  LUCK 


'  She  could  not  conceive  a  game  wanting  the  sprightly  infusion  of  chance, 
—  the  handsome  excuses  of  good  fortune"  —  CHARLES  LAMB:  Essays 
>f  Eliot. 


FISHERMAN'S  LUCK 

HAS  it  ever  fallen  in  your  way  to  notice  the 
quality  of  the  greetings  that  belong  to  certain 
occupations  ? 

There  is  something  about  these  salutations  in 
kind  which  is  singularly  taking  and  grateful  to 
the  ear.  They  are  as  much  better  than  an  ordi 
nary  "  good  day  "  or  a  flat  "  how  are  you  ?  "  as 
a  folk-song  of  Scotland  or  the  Tyrol  is  better 
than  the  futile  love-ditty  of  the  drawing-room. 
They  have  a  spicy  and  rememberable  flavour. 
They  speak  to  the  imagination  and  point  the  way 
to  treasure-trove. 

There  is  a  touch  of  dignity  in  them,  too,  for 
all  they  are  so  free  and  easy  —  the  dignity  of 
independence,  the  native  spirit  of  one  who  takes 
for  granted  that  his  mode  of  living  has  a  right 
to  make  its  own  forms  of  speech.  I  admire  a 
man  who  does  not  hesitate  to  salute  the  world  in 
the  dialect  of  his  calling. 

How  salty  and  stimulating,  for  example,  is  the 
sailorman's  hail  of  "  Ship  ahoy !  "  It  is  like  a 
breeze  laden  with  briny  odours  and  a  pleasant 
3 


FISHERMAN1  S  LUCK 

dash  of  spray.  The  miners  in  some  parts  of  Ger 
many  have  a  good  greeting  for  their  dusky  trade. 
They  cry  to  one  who  is  going  down  the  shaft, 
"  Gliick  auf! "  All  the  perils  of  an  under 
ground  adventure  and  all  the  joys  of  seeing  the 
sun  again  are  compressed  into  a  word.  Even 
the  trivial  salutation  which  the  telephone  has 
lately  created  and  claimed  for  its  peculiar  use  — 
"  Hello,  hello !  "  —  seems  to  me  to  have  a  kind 
of  fitness  and  fascination.  It  is  like  a  thorough 
bred  bulldog,  ugly  enough  to  be  attractive. 
There  is  a  lively,  concentrated,  electric  air  about 
it.  It  makes  courtesy  wait  upon  dispatch,  and 
reminds  us  that  we  live  in  an  age  when  it  is 
necessary  to  be  wide  awake. 

I  have  often  wished  that  every  human  em 
ployment  might  evolve  its  own  appropriate  greet 
ing.  Some  of  them  would  be  queer,  no  doubt ; 
but  at  least  they  would  be  an  improvement  on 
the  wearisome  iteration  of  "  Good-evening  "  and 
"  Good-morning,"  and  the  monotonous  inquiry, 
"How  do  you  do?" — a  question  so  meaning 
less  that  it  seldom  tarries  for  an  answer.  Under 
the  new  and  more  natural  system  of  etiquette, 
when  you  passed  the  time  of  day  with  a  man  you 
would  know  his  business,  and  the  salutations  of 
the  market-place  would  be  full  of  interest. 

As  for  my  chosen  pursuit  of  angling  (which  I 
follow  with  diligence  when  not  interrupted  by 
4 


FISHERMAN' S  LUCK 

less  important  concerns),  I  rejoice  with  every 
true  fisherman  that  it  has  a  greeting  all  its  own 
and  of  a  most  honourable  antiquity.  There  is 
no  written  record  of  its  origin.  But  it  is  quite 
certain  that  since  the  days  after  the  Flood,  when 
Deucalion 

"  Did  first  this  art  invent 
Of  angling,  and  his  people  taught  the  same," 

two  honest  and  good-natured  anglers  have  never 
met  each  other  by  the  way  without  crying  out, 
"What  luck?" 

Here,  indeed,  is  an  epitome  of  the  gentle  art. 
Here  is  the  spirit  of  it  embodied  in  a  word  and 
paying  its  respects  to  you  with  its  native  accent. 
Here  you  see  its  secret  charms  unconsciously 
disclosed.  The  attraction  of  angling  for  all  the 
ages  of  man,  from  the  cradle  to  the  grave,  lies 
in  its  uncertainty.  'T  is  an  affair  of  luck. 

No  amount  of  preparation  in  the  matter  of 
rods  and  lines  and  hooks  and  lures  and  nets  and 
creels  can  change  its  essential  character.  No 
excellence  of  skill  in  casting  the  delusive  fly  or 
adjusting  the  tempting  bait  upon  the  hook  can 
make  the  result  secure.  You  may  reduce  the 
chances,  but  you  cannot  eliminate  them.  There 
are  a  thousand  points  at  which  fortune  may 
intervene.  The  state  of  the  weather,  the  height 
of  the  water,  the  appetite  of  the  fish,  the  pre 
sence  or  absence  of  other  anglers  - —  all  these 
5 


FISHERMAN'S  LUCK 

indeterminable  elements  enter  into  the  reckon 
ing  of  your  success.  There  is  no  combination  of 
stars  in  the  firmament  by  which  you  can  forecast 
the  piscatorial  future.  When  you  go  a-fishing, 
you  just  take  your  chances ;  you  offer  yourself 
as  a  candidate  for  anything  that  may  be  going ; 
you  try  your  luck. 

There  are  certain  days  that  are  favourites 
among  anglers,  who  regard  them  as  propitious 
for  the  sport.  I  know  a  man  who  believes  that 
the  fish  always  rise  better  on  Sunday  than  on 
any  other  day  in  the  week.  He  complains 
bitterly  of  this  supposed  fact,  because  his  reli 
gious  scruples  will  not  allow  him  to  take  advan 
tage  of  it.  He  confesses  that  he  has  sometimes 
thought  seriously  of  joining  the  Seventh-Day 
Baptists. 

Among  the  Pennsylvania  Dutch,  in  the  Alle- 
ghany  Mountains,  I  have  found  a  curious  tra 
dition  that  Ascension  Day  is  the  luckiest  in  the 
year  for  fishing.  On  that  morning  the  district 
school  is  apt  to  be  thinly  attended,  and  you 
must  be  on  the  stream  very  early  if  you  do  not 
wish  to  find  wet  footprints  on  the  stones  ahead 
of  you. 

But  in  fact,  all  these  superstitions  about  fortu 
nate  days  are  idle  and  presumptuous.  If  there 
were  such  days  in  the  calendar,  a  kind  and  firm 
Providence  would  never  permit  the  race  of  man 


FISHERMAN'S  LifCK 

to  discover  them.  It  would  rob  life  of  one  ot 
its  principal  attractions,  and  make  fishing  alto 
gether  too  easy  to  be  interesting. 

Fisherman's  luck  is  so  notorious  that  it  has 
passed  into  a  proverb.  But  the  fault  with  that 
familiar  saying  is  that  it  is  too  short  and  too 
narrow  to  cover  half  the  variations  of  the  an 
gler's  possible  experience.  For  if  his  luck  should 
be  bad,  there  is  no  portion  of  his  anatomy,  from 
the  crown  of  his  head  to  the  soles  of  his  feet, 
that  may  not  be  thoroughly  wet.  But  if  it 
should  be  good,  he  may  receive  an  unearned 
blessing  of  abundance  not  only  in  his  basket, 
but  also  in  his  head  and  his  heart,  his  memory 
and  his  fancy.  He  may  come  home  from  some 
obscure,  ill-named,  lovely  stream  —  some  Dry 
Brook,  or  Southwest  Branch  of  Smith's  Run  — 
with  a  creel  full  of  trout,  and  a  mind  full  of 
grateful  recollections  of  flowers  that  seemed  to 
bloom  for  his  sake,  and  birds  that  sang  a  new, 
sweet,  friendly  message  to  his  tired  soul.  He 
may  climb  down  to  "  Tommy's  Rock "  below 
the  cliffs  at  Newport  (as  I  have  done  many  a 
day  with  my  lady  Grey  gown),  and,  all  unno 
ticed  by  the  idle,  weary  promenaders  in  the 
path  of  fashion,  haul  in  a  basketful  of  black- 
fish,  and  at  the  same  time  look  out  across  the 
shining  sapphire  waters  and  inherit  a  wondrous 
good  fortune  of  dreams  — 
7 


FISHEBMAN'S  LUCK 

"  Have  glimpses  that  will  make  him  less  forlorn ; 
Have  sight  of  Proteus  rising  from  the  sea, 
Or  hear  old  Triton  blow  his  wreathed  horn." 

But  all  this,  you  must  remember,  depends 
upon  something  secret  and  incalculable,  some 
thing  that  we  can  neither  command  nor  predict. 
It  is  an  affair  of  gift,  not  of  wages.  Fish  (and 
the  other  good  things  which  are  like  sauce  to 
the  catching  of  them)  cast  no  shadow  before. 
Water  is  the  emblem  of  instability.  No  one 
can  tell  what  he  shall  draw  out  of  it  until  he 
has  taken  in  his  line.  Herein  are  found  the 
true  charm  and  profit  of  angling  for  all  persons 
of  a  pure  and  childlike  mind. 

Look  at  those  two  venerable  gentlemen  float 
ing  in  a  skiff  upon  the  clear  waters  of  Lake 
George.  One  of  them  is  a  successful  states 
man,  an  ex-President  of  the  United  States,  a 
lawyer  versed  in  all  the  curious  eccentricities 
of  the  "  lawless  science  of  the  law."  The  other 
is  a  learned  doctor  of  medicine,  able  to  give  a 
name  to  all  diseases  from  which  men  have  im 
agined  that  they  suffered,  and  to  invent  new 
ones  for  those  who  are  tired  of  vulgar  maladies. 
But  all  their  learning  is  forgotten,  their  cares 
and  controversies  are  laid  aside,  in  "  innocuous 
desuetude."  The  Summer  School  of  Sociology 
is  assembled.  The  Medical  Congress  is  in  ses 
sion.  But  they  care  not  —  no,  not  so  much  as 
8 


,,. 


'The  little  suburban  boys  with  their  strings  and  pin-hooks. 


FISHERMAN'S  LUCK 

the  value  of  a  single  live  bait.  The  sun  shines 
upon  them  with  a  fervent  heat,  but  it  irks  them 
not.  The  rain  descends,  and  the  winds  blow 
and  beat  upon  them,  but  they  are  unmoved. 
They  are  securely  anchored  here  in  the  lee  of 
Sabbath-Day  Point. 

What  enchantment  binds  them  to  that  incon 
siderable  spot?  What  magic  fixes  their  eyes 
upon  the  point  of  a  fishing-rod,  as  if  it  were  the 
finger  of  destiny?  It  is  the  enchantment  of 
uncertainty  :  the  same  natural  magic  that  draws 
the  little  suburban  boys  in  the  spring  of  the 
year,  with  their  strings  and  pin-hooks,  around 
the  shallow  ponds  where  dace  and  redfins  hide ; 
the  same  irresistible  charm  that  fixes  a  row  of 
city  gamins,  like  ragged  and  disreputable  fish- 
crows,  on  the  end  of  a  pier  where  blear-eyed 
flounders  sometimes  lurk  in  the  muddy  water. 
Let  the  philosopher  explain  it  as  he  will.  Let 
the  moralist  reprehend  it  as  he  chooses.  There 
is  nothing  that  attracts  human  nature  more 
powerfully  than  the  sport  of  tempting  the  un 
known  with  a  fishing-line. 

Those  ancient  anglers  have  set  out  upon  an 
exodus  from  the  tedious  realm  of  the  definite, 
the  fixed,  the  must-certainly-come-to-pass.  They 
are  on  a  holiday  in  the  free  country  of  per- 
adventure.  They  do  not  know  at  this  moment 
whether  the  next  turn  of  Fortune's  reel  will 
9 


FISHEBMAN'S  LUCK 

bring  up  a  perch  or  a  pickerel,  a  sunfish  or 
a  black  bass.  It  may  be  a  hideous  catfish  or 
a  squirming  eel,  or  it  may  be  a  lake-trout,  the 
grand  prize  in  the  Lake  George  lottery.  There 
they  sit,  those  gray-haired  lads,  full  of  hope,  yet 
equally  prepared  for  resignation ;  taking  no 
thought  for  the  morrow,  and  ready  to  make  the 
best  of  to-day;  harmless  and  happy  players  at 
the  best  of  all  games  of  chance. 

"  In  other  words,"  I  hear  some  severe  and 
sour-complexioned  reader  say,  "  in  plain  lan 
guage,  they  are  a  pair  of  old  gamblers." 

Yes,  if  it  pleases  you  to  call  honest  men  by 
a  bad  name.  But  they  risk  nothing  that  is  not 
their  own;  and  if  they  lose,  they  are  not  im 
poverished.  They  desire  nothing  that  belongs 
to  other  men  ;  and  if  they  win,  no  one  is  robbed. 
If  all  gambling  were  like  that,  it  would  be  diffi 
cult  to  see  the  harm  in  it.  Indeed,  a  daring 
moralist  might  even  assert,  and  prove  by  argu 
ment,  that  so  innocent  a  delight  in  the  taking  of 
chances  is  an  aid  to  virtue. 

Do  you  remember  Martin  Luther's  reasoning 
on  the  subject  of  "  excellent  large  pike  "  ?  He 
maintains  that  God  would  never  have  created 
them  so  good  to  the  taste,  if  He  had  not  meant 
them  to  be  eaten.  And  for  the  same  reason  I 
conclude  that  this  world  would  never  have  been 
left  so  full  of  uncertainties,  nor  human  nature 
10 


FISHERMAN'S  LUCK 

framed  so  as  to  find  a  peculiar  joy  and  exhilara- 
tion  in  meeting  them  bravely  and  cheerfully,  if 
it  had  not  been  divinely  intended  that  most  of 
our  amusement  and  much  of  our  education 
should  come  from  this  source. 

"  Chance "  is  a  disreputable  word,  I  know. 
It  is  supposed  by  many  pious  persons  to  be  im 
proper  and  almost  blasphemous  to  use  it.  But 
I  am  not  one  of  those  who  share  this  verbal  pre 
judice.  I  am  inclined  rather  to  believe  that  it 
is  a  good  word  to  which  a  bad  reputation  has 
been  given.  I  feel  grateful  to  that  admirable 
"  psychologist  who  writes  like  a  novelist,"  Mr. 
William  James,  for  his  brilliant  defence  of  it. 
For  what  does  it  mean,  after  all,  but  that  some 
things  happen  in  a  certain  way  which  might 
have  happened  in  another  way  ?  Where  is  the 
immorality,  the  irreverence,  the  atheism  in  such 
a  supposition  ?  Certainly  God  must  be  compe 
tent  to  govern  a  world  in  which  there  are  pos 
sibilities  of  various  kinds,  just  as  well  as  one 
in  which  every  event  is  inevitably  determined 
beforehand.  St.  Peter  and  the  other  fishermen- 
disciples  on  the  Lake  of  Galilee  were  perfectly 
free  to  cast  their  net  on  either  side  of  the  ship. 
So  far  as  they  could  see,  so  far  as  any  one  could 
see,  it  was  a  matter  of  chance  where  they  chose 
to  cast  it.  But  it  was  not  until  they  let  it  down, 
at  the  Master's  word,  on  the  right  side  that  they 
11 


FISHEEMAN'S   LUCK 

had  good  luck.  And  not  the  least  element  of 
their  joy  in  the  draft  of  fishes  was  that  it  brought 
a  change  of  fortune. 

Leave  the  metaphysics  of  the  question  on  the 
table  for  the  present.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  it  is 
plain  that  our  human  nature  is  adapted  to  con 
ditions  variable,  undetermined,  and  hidden  from 
our  view.  We  are  not  fitted  to  live  in  a  world 
where  a  +  b  always  equals  c,  and  there  is  nothing 
more  to  follow.  The  interest  of  life's  equation 
arrives  with  the  appearance  of  as,  the  unknown 
quantity.  A  settled,  unchangeable,  clearly  fore 
seeable  order  of  things  does  not  suit  our  consti 
tution.  It  tends  to  melancholy  and  a  fatty  heart. 
Creatures  of  habit  we  are  undoubtedly ;  but  it 
is  one  of  our  most  fixed  habits  to  be  fond  of 
variety.  The  man  who  is  never  surprised  does 
not  know  the  taste  of  happiness,  and  unless  the 
unexpected  sometimes  happens  to  us,  we  are  most 
grievously  disappointed. 

Much  of  the  tediousness  of  highly  civilized 
life  comes  from  its  smoothness  and  regularity. 
To-day  is  like  yesterday,  and  we  think  that  we 
can  predict  to-morrow.  Of  course  we  cannot 
really  do  so.  The  chances  are  still  there.  But 
we  have  covered  them  up  so  deeply  with  the 
artificialities  of  life  that  we  lose  sight  of  them. 
It  seems  as  if  everything  in  our  neat  little  world 
were  arranged,  and  provided  for,  and  reasonably 
12 


FISHEBMAN'S    LUCK 

sure  to  come  to  pass.  The  best  way  of  escape 
from  this  Tcedium  vitce  is  through  a  recreation 
like  angling,  not  only  because  it  is  so  evidently 
a  matter  of  luck,  but  also  because  it  tempts  us 
into  a  wilder,  freer  life.  It  leads  almost  inevi 
tably  to  camping  out,  which  is  a  wholesome  and 
sanitary  imprudence. 

It  is  curious  and  pleasant,  to  my  apprehension, 
to  observe  how  many  people  in  New  England, 
one  of  whose  States  is  called  "  the  land  of  Steady 
Habits,"  are  sensible  of  the  joy  of  changing 
them,  —  out  of  doors.  These  good  folk  turn  out 
from  their  comfortable  farm-houses  and  their 
snug  suburban  cottages  to  go  a-gypsying  for  a 
fortnight  among  the  mountains  or  beside  the  sea. 
You  see  their  white  tents  gleaming  from  the 
pine-groves  around  the  little  lakes,  and  catch 
glimpses  of  their  bathing-clothes  drying  in  the 
sun  on  the  wiry  grass  that  fringes  the  sand- 
dunes.  Happy  fugitives  from  the  bondage  of 
routine  !  They  have  found  out  that  a  long  jour 
ney  is  not  necessary  to  a  good  vacation.  You 
may  reach  the  Forest  of  Arden  in  a  buck-board. 
The  Fortunate  Isles  are  within  sailing  distance 
in  a  dory.  And  a  voyage  on  the  river  Pactolus 
is  open  to  any  one  who  can  paddle  a  canoe. 

I  was  talking  —  or  rather  listening  —  with  a 
barber,  the  other  day,  in  the  sleepy  old  town  of 
Eivermouth.  He  told  me,  in  one  of  those  easy 
13 


FISHERMAN1 S  LUCK 

confidences  which  seem  to  make  the  razor  run 
more  smoothly,  that  it  had  been  the  custom  of 
his  family,  for  some  twenty  years  past,  to  for 
sake  their  commodious  dwelling  on  Anchor  Street 
every  summer,  and  emigrate  six  miles,  in  a  wagon 
to  Wallis  Sands,  where  they  spent  the  month  oi 
August  very  merrily  under  canvas.  Here  was 
a  sensible  household  for  you !  They  did  not  feel 
bound  to  waste  a  year's  income  on  a  four  weeks' 
holiday.  They  were  not  of  those  foolish  folk 
who  run  across  the  sea,  carefully  carrying  with 
them  the  same  tiresome  mind  that  worried  them 
at  home.  They  got  a  change  of  air  by  making 
an  alteration  of  life.  They  escaped  from  the 
land  of  Egypt  by  stepping  out  into  the  wilder 
ness  and  going  a-fishing. 

The  people  who  always  live  in  houses,  and 
sleep  on  beds,  and  walk  on  pavements,  and  buy 
their  food  from  butchers  and  bakers  and  grocers, 
are  not  the  most  blessed  inhabitants  of  this  wide 
and  various  earth.  The  circumstances  of  their 
existence  are  too  mathematical  and  secure  for 
perfect  contentment.  They  live  at  second  or 
third  hand.  They  are  boarders  in  the  world. 
Everything  is  done  for  them  by  somebody  else. 

It  is  almost  impossible  for  anything  very  inter 
esting  to  happen  to  them.     They  must  get  their 
excitement  out  of  the  newspapers,  reading  of  the 
hairbreadth  escapes  and  moving  accidents  that 
14 


FISHEBMAN'S  LUCK 

befall  people  in  real  life.  What  do  these  tame 
ducks  really  know  of  the  adventure  of  living  ? 
If  the  weather  is  bad,  they  are  snugly  housed. 
If  it  is  cold,  there  is  a  furnace  in  the  cellar.  If 
they  are  hungry,  the  shops  are  near  at  hand.  It 
is  all  as  dull,  flat,  stale,  and  unprofitable  as  add 
ing  up  a  column  of  figures.  They  might  as  well 
be  brought  up  in  an  incubator. 

But  when  man  abides  in  tents,  after  the  man 
ner  of  the  early  patriarchs,  the  face  of  the  world 
is  renewed.  The  vagaries  of  the  clouds  become 
significant.  You  watch  the  sky  with  a  lover's 
look,  eager  to  know  whether  it  will  smile  or 
frown.  When  you  lie  at  night  upon  your  bed  of 
boughs  and  hear  the  rain  pattering  on  the  canvas 
close  above  your  head,  you  wonder  whether  it  is 
a  long  storm  or  only  a  shower. 

The  rising  wind  shakes  the  tent-flaps.  Are 
the  pegs  well  driven  down  and  the  cords  firmly 
fastened  ?  You  fall  asleep  again  and  wake  later, 
to  hear  the  rain  drumming  still  more  loudly  on 
the  tight  cloth,  and  the  big  breeze  snoring 
through  the  forest,  and  the  waves  plunging  along 
the  beach.  A  stormy  day  ?  Well,  you  must  cut 
plenty  of  wood  and  keep  the  camp-fire  glowing, 
for  it  will  be  hard  to  start  it  up  again,  if  you  let 
it  get  too  low.  There  is  little  use  in  fishing  or 
hunting  in  such  a  storm.  But  there  is  plenty  to 
do  in  the  camp :  guns  to  be  cleaned,  tackle  to  be 
15 


FISHEEMAWS  LUCK 

put  in  order,  clothes  to  be  mended,  a  good  story 
of  adventure  to  be  read,  a  belated  letter  to  be 
written  to  some  poor  wretch  in  a  comfortable 
house,  a  game  of  hearts  or  cribbage  to  be  played, 
or  a  campaign  to  be  planned  for  the  return  of 
fair  weather.  The  tent  is  perfectly  dry.  A  lit 
tle  trench  dug  around  it  carries  off  the  surplus 
water,  and  luckily  it  is  pitched  with  the  side  to 
the  lake,  so  that  you  get  the  'pleasant  heat  of  the 
fire  without  the  unendurable  smoke.  Cooking 
in  the  rain  has  its  disadvantages.  But  how  good 
the  supper  tastes  when  it  is  served  up  on  a  tin 
plate,  with  an  empty  box  for  a  table  and  a  roll 
of  blankets  at  the  foot  of  the  bed  for  a  seat ! 

A  day,  two  days,  three  days,  the  storm  may 
continue,  according  to  your  luck.  I  have  been 
out  in  the  woods  for  a  fortnight  without  a  drop 
of  rain  or  a  sign  of  dust.  Again,  I  have  tented 
on  the  shore  of  a  big  lake  for  a  week,  waiting 
for  an  obstinate  tempest  to  pass  by. 

Look  now,  just  at  nightfall :  is  there  not  a 
little  lifting  and  breaking  of  the  clouds  in  the 
west,  a  little  shifting  of  the  wind  toward  a  bet 
ter  quarter  ?  You  go  to  bed  with  cheerful  hopes. 
A  dozen  times  in  the  darkness  you  are  half 
awake,  and  listening  drowsily  to  the  sounds  of 
the  storm.  Are  they  waxing  or  waning?  Is 
that  louder  pattering  a  new  burst  of  rain,  or  is 
it  only  the  plumping  of  the  big  drops  as  they  are 
16 


FISHERMAN'S  LUCK 

shaken  from  the  trees  ?  See,  the  dawn  has  come, 
and  the  gray  light  glimmers  through  the  canvas, 
In  a  little  while  you  will  know  your  fate. 

Look !  There  is  a  patch  of  bright  yellow  ra 
diance  on  the  peak  of  the  tent.  The  shadow  of 
a  leaf  dances  over  it.  The  sun  must  be  shining. 
Good  luck  I  and  up  with  you,  for  it  is  a  glori 
ous  morning. 

The  woods  are  glistening  as  fresh  and  fair  as 
if  they  had  been  new-created  overnight.  The 
water  sparkles  with  merriment,  and  tiny  waves 
are  dancing  and  singing  all  along  the  shore. 
Scarlet  berries  of  the  mountain-ash  hang  around 
the  lake,  like  a  necklace  of  coral.  A  pair  of 
kingfishers  dart  back  and  forth  across  the  bay, 
in  flashes  of  living  blue.  A  black  eagle  swings 
silently  around  his  circle,  far  up  in  the  cloudless 
sky.  The  air  is  full  of  pleasant  sounds,  but 
there  is  no  noise.  The  world  is  full  of  joyful 
life,  but  there  is  no  crowd  and  no  confusion. 
There  is  no  factory  chimney  to  darken  the  day 
with  its  smoke,  no  trolley-car  to  split  the  silence 
with  its  shriek  and  smite  the  indignant  ear  with 
the  clanging  of  its  impudent  bell.  No  lumber 
man's  axe  has  robbed  the  encircling  forests  of 
their  glory  of  great  trees.  No  fires  have  swept 
over  the  hills  and  left  behind  them  the  desola 
tion  of  a  bristly  landscape.  All  is  fresh  and 
sweet,  calm  and  clear  and  bright. 
17 


FISHERMAN'S  LUCK 

'T  was  rather  a  rude  jest  of  Nature,  that  tem 
pest  of  yesterday.  But  if  you  have  taken  it  in 
good  part,  you  are  all  the  more  ready  for  her  ca 
ressing  mood  to-day.  And  now  you  must  be  off 
to  get  your  dinner  —  not  to  order  it  at  a  shop, 
but  to  look  for  it  in  the  woods  and  waters.  You 
are  ready  to  do  your  best  with  rod  or  gun.  You 
will  use  all  the  skill  you  have  as  hunter  or  fisher 
man.  But  what  you  shall  find,  and  whether  you 
shall  subsist  on  bacon  and  biscuit,  or  feast  on 
trout  and  partridges,  is,  after  all,  a  matter  of 
luck. 

I  profess  that  it  appears  to  me  not  only  plea 
sant,  but  also  salutary,  to  be  in  this  condition. 
It  brings  us  home  to  the  plain  realities  of  life  ; 
it  teaches  us  that  a  man  ought  to  work  before 
he  eats ;  it  reminds  us  that,  after  he  has  done 
all  he  can,  he  must  still  rely  upon  a  mysterious 
bounty  for  his  daily  bread.  It  says  to  us,  in 
homely  and  familiar  words,  that  life  was  meant 
to  be  uncertain,  that  no  man  can  tell  what  a  day 
will  bring  forth,  and  that  it  is  the  part  of  wis 
dom  to  be  prepared  for  disappointments  and 
grateful  for  all  kinds  of  small  mercies. 

There  is  a  story  in  that  fragrant  book, 
The  Little  Flowers  of  St.  Francis,  which  I 
wish  to  transcribe  here,  without  tying  a  moral 
to  it,  lest  any  one  should  accuse  me  of  preach 
ing. 

18 


FISHERMAN'S  LUCK 

u  Hence  [says  the  quaint  old  chronicler],  having  as 
signed  to  his  companions  the  other  parts  of  the  world, 
St.  Francis,  taking  Brother  Maximus  as  his  comrade, 
set  forth  toward  the  province  of  France.  And  com 
ing  one  day  to  a  certain  town,  and  being  very  hungry, 
they  begged  their  bread  as  they  went,  according  to 
the  rule  of  their  order,  for  the  love  of  God.  And  St. 
Francis  went  through  one  quarter  of  the  town,  and 
Brother  Maximus  through  another.  But  forasmuch 
as  St.  Francis  was  a  man  mean  and  low  of  stature,  i 
and  hence  was  reputed  a  vile  beggar  by  such  as  knew 
him  not,  he  only  received  a  few  scanty  crusts  and 
mouthfuls  of  dry  bread.  But  to  Brother  Maximus, 
who  was  large  and  well  favoured,  were  given  good 
pieces  and  big,  and  an  abundance  of  bread,  yea,  whole 
loaves.  Having  thus  begged,  they  met  together  with 
out  the  town  to  eat,  at  a  place  where  there  was  a 
clear  spring  a»d  a  fair  large  stone,  upon  which  each 
spread  forth  the  gifts  that  he  had  received.  And  St. 
Francis,  seeing  that  the  pieces  of  bread  begged  by 
Brother  Mayimus  were  bigger  and  better  than  his 
own,  rejoiced  greatly,  saying,  '  Oh,  Brother  Maxi 
mus,  we  are  not  worthy  of  so  great  a  treasure.'  As 
he  repeated  these  words  many  times,  Brother  Maxi 
mus  made  answer  :  '  Father,  how  can  you  talk  of 
treasures  when  there  is  such  great  poverty  and  such 
lack  of  all  things  needful  ?  Here  is  neither  napkin 
nor  knife,  neither  board  nor  trencher,  neither  house 
nor  table,  neither  man-servant  nor  maid-servant.' 
St.  Francis  replied :  '  And  this  is  what  I  reckon  a 
great  treasure,  where  naught  is  made  ready  by  human 
19 


FISHEBMAN'S  LUCK 

industry,  but  all  that  is  here  is  prepared  by  Divine 
Providence,  as  is  plainly  set  forth  in  the  bread  which 
we  have  begged,  in  the  table  of  fair  stone,  and  in  the 
spring  of  clear  water.  And  therefore  I  would  that 
we  should  pray  to  God  that  He  teach  us  with  all  our 
hearts  to  love  the  treasure  of  holy  poverty,  which 
is  so  noble  a  thing,  and  whose  servant  is  God  the 
Lord.'  " 

I  know  of  but  one  fairer  description  of  a  re 
past  in  the  open  air ;  and  that  is  where  we  are 
told  how  certain  poor  fishermen,  coming  in  very 
weary  after  a  night  of  toil  (and  one  of  them  very 
wet  after  swimming  ashore),  found  their  Mas 
ter  standing  on  the  bank  of  the  lake  waiting  for 
them.  But  it  seems  that  he  must  have  been 
busy  in  their  behalf  while  he  was  waiting ;  for 
there  was  a  bright  fire  of  coals  burning  on  the 
shore,  and  a  goodly  fish  broiling  thereon,  and 
bread  to  eat  with  it.  And  when  the  Master  had 
asked  them  about  their  fishing,  he  said,  "  Come, 
now,  and  get  your  breakfast."  So  they  sat  down 
around  the  fire,  and  with  his  own  hands  he 
served  them  with  the  bread  and  the  fish. 

Of  all  the  banquets  that  have  ever  been  given 
upon  earth,  that  is  the  one  in  which  I  would 
rather  have  had  a  share. 

But  it  is  now  time  that  we  should  return  to 
our  fishing.  And  let  us  observe  with  gratitude 
that  almost  all  of  the  pleasures  that  are  connected 
20 


FISHEBMAN'S  LUCK 

with  this  pursuit  —  its  accompaniments  and 
variations,  which  run  along  with  the  tune  and 
weave  an  embroidery  of  delight  around  it- — 
have  an  accidental  and  gratuitous  quality  about 
them.  They  are  not  to  be  counted  upon  before 
hand.  They  are  like  something  that  is  thrown 
into  a  purchase  by  a  generous  and  open-handed 
dealer,  to  make  us  pleased  with  our  bargain  and 
inclined  to  come  back  to  the  same  shop. 

If  I  knew,  for  example,  before  setting  out  for 
a  day  on  the  brook,  precisely  what  birds  I  should 
see,  and  what  pretty  little  scenes  in  the  drama 
of  woodland  life  were  to  be  enacted  before  my 
eyes,  the  expedition  would  lose  more  than  half 
its  charm.  But,  in  fact,  it  is  almost  entirely  a 
matter  of  luck,  and  that  is  why  it  never  grows 
tiresome. 

The  ornithologist  knows  pretty  well  where  to 
look  for  the  birds,  and  he  goes  directly  to  the 
places  where  he  can  find  them,  and  proceeds  to 
study  them  intelligently  and  systematically.  But 
the  angler  who  idles  down  the  stream  takes  them 
as  they  come,  and  all  his  observations  have  a 
flavour  of  surprise  in  them. 

He  hears  a  familiar  song,  —  one  that  he  has 
often  heard  at  a  distance,  but  never  identified,  — 
a  loud,  cheery,  rustic  cadence  sounding  from  a 
low  pine-tree  close  beside  him.  He  looks  up 
carefully  through  the  needles  and  discovers  a 
21 


FISHERMAN'S  LUCK 

hooded  warbler,  a  tiny,  restless  creature,  dressed 
in  green  and  yellow,  with  two  white  feathers  in 
its  tail,  like  the  ends  of  a  sash,  and  a  glossy  little 
black  bonnet  drawn  closely  about  its  golden  head. 
He  will  never  forget  that  song  again.  It  will 
make  the  woods  seem  homelike  to  him,  many  a 
time,  as  he  hears  it  ringing  through  the  after 
noon,  like  the  call  of  a  small  country  girl  play 
ing  at  hide-and-seek :  "  See  me  ;  here  I  5e." 

Another  day  he  sits  down  on  a  mossy  log 
beside  a  cold,  trickling  spring  to  eat  his  lunch. 
It  has  been  a  barren  day  for  birds.  Perhaps  he 
has  fallen  into  the  fault  of  pursuing  his  sport  too 
intensely,  and  tramped  along  the  stream  without 
eyes  for  anything  but  fish.  Perhaps  this  part  of 
the  grove  has  really  been  deserted  by  its  feath 
ered  inhabitants,  scared  away  by  a  prowling 
hawk  or  driven  out  by  nest-hunters.  But  now, 
without  notice,  the  luck  changes.  A  surprise- 
party  of  redstarts  breaks  into  full  play  around 
him.  All  through  the  dark-green  shadow  of  the 
hemlocks  they  flash  like  little  candles  —  can- 
delitas,  the  Cubans  call  them.  Their  brilliant 
markings  of  orange  and  black,  and  their  flutter 
ing,  airy,  graceful  movements,  make  them  most 
welcome  visitors.  There  is  no  bird  in  the  bush 
easier  to  recognize  or  pleasanter  to  watch.  They 
run  along  the  branches  and  dart  and  tumble 
through  the  air  in  fearless  chase  of  invisible  flies 
22 


FISHEBMAN'S  LUCK 

and  moths.  All  the  time  they  keep  unfolding 
and  furling  their  rounded  tails,  spreading  them 
out  and  waving  them  and  closing  them  suddenly, 
just  as  the  Cuban  girls  manage  their  fans.  In 
fact,  the  redstarts  are  the  tiny  fantail  pigeons 
of  the  forest. 

There  are  other  things  about  the  birds,  besides 
their  musical  talents  and  their  good  looks,  that 
the  fisherman  has  a  chance  to  observe  on  his 
lucky  days.  He  may  see  something  of  their 
courage  and  their  devotion  to  their  young. 

I  suppose  a  bird  is  the  bravest  creature  that 
lives,  in  spite  of  its  natural  timidity.  From 
which  we  may  learn  that  true  courage  is  not  in 
compatible  with  nervousness,  and  that  heroism 
does  not  mean  the  absence  of  fear,  but  the  con 
quest  of  it.  Who  does  not  remember  the  first 
time  that  he  ever  ran  across  a  hen-partridge 
with  her  brood,  as  he  was  strolling  through  the 
woods  in  June  ?  How  splendidly  the  old  bird 
forgets  herself  in  her  efforts  to  defend  and  hide 
her  young ! 

Smaller  birds  are  no  less  daring.  One  even 
ing  last  summer  I  was  walking  up  the  Risti- 
gouche  from  Camp  Harmony  to  Mowett's  Rock, 
where  my  canoe  was  waiting  for  me,  to  fish  for 
salmon.  As  I  stepped  out  from  a  thicket  on  to 
the  shingly  bank  of  the  river,  a  spotted  sandpi 
per  teetered  along  before  me,  followed  by  three 
23 


FISHERMAN'S  LUCK 

young  ones.  Frightened  at  first,  the  mother 
flew  out  a  few  feet  over  the  water.  But  the 
piperlings  could  not  fly,  having  no  feathers; 
and  they  crept  under  a  crooked  log.  I  rolled  the 
log  over  very  gently  and  took  one  of  the  cower 
ing  creatures  into  my  hand  —  a  tiny,  palpitating 
scrap  of  life,  covered  with  soft  gray  down,  and 
peeping  shrilly,  like  a  Liliputian  chicken.  And 
now  the  mother  was  transformed.  Her  fear  was 
changed  into  fury.  She  was  a  bully,  a  fighter, 
an  Amazon  in  feathers.  She  flew  at  me  with 
loud  cries,  dashing  herself  almost  into  my  face. 
I  was  a  tyrant,  a  robber,  a  kidnapper,  and  she 
called  heaven  to  witness  that  she  would  never 
give  up  her  offspring  without  a  struggle.  Then 
she  changed  her  tactics  and  appealed  to  my  baser 
passions.  She  fell  to  the  ground  and  fluttered 
around  me  as  if  her  wing  were  broken.  "  Look !  " 
she  seemed  to  say,  "  I  am  bigger  than  that  poor 
little  baby.  If  you  must  eat  something,  eat  me ! 
My  wing  is  lame.  I  can't  fly.  You  can  easily 
catch  me.  Let  that  little  bird  go !  "  And  so  I 
did;  and  the  whole  family  disappeared  in  the 
bushes  as  if  by  magic.  I  wondered  whether  the 
mother  was  saying  to  herself,  after  the  manner 
of  her  sex,  that  men  are  stupid  things,  after  all, 
and  no  match  for  the  cleverness  of  a  female  who 
stoops  to  deception  in  a  righteous  cause. 

Now,  that  trivial  experience  was  what  I  call  n. 
24 


FISHERMAN'S  LUCK 

piece  of  good  luck  —  for  me,  and,  in  the  event, 
for  the  sandpiper.  But  it  is  doubtful  whether 
it  would  be  quite  so  fresh  and  pleasant  in  the 
remembrance,  if  it  had  not  also  fallen  to  my  lot 
to  take  two  uncommonly  good  salmon  on  that 
same  evening,  in  a  dry  season. 

Never  believe  a  fisherman  when  he  tells  you 
that  he  does  not  care  about  the  fish  he  catches. 
He  may  say  that  he  angles  only  for  the  pleasure 
of  being  out-of-doors,  and  that  he  is  just  as  well 
contented  when  he  takes  nothing  as  when  he 
makes  a  good  catch.  He  may  think  so,  but  it 
is  not  true.  He  is  not  telling  a  deliberate  false 
hood.  He  is  only  assuming  an  unconscious  pose, 
and  indulging  in  a  delicate  bit  of  self-flattery. 
Even  if  it  were  true,  it  would  not  be  at  all  to  his 
credit. 

Watch  him  on  that  lucky  day  when  he  comes 
home  with  a  full  basket  of  trout  on  his  shoulder, 
or  a  quartette  of  silver  salmon  covered  with  green 
branches  in  the  bottom  of  the  canoe.  His  face 
is  broader  than  it  was  when  he  went  out,  and 
there  is  a  sparkle  of  triumph  in  his  eye.  "  It  is 
naught,  it  is  naught,"  he  says,  in  modest  depre 
ciation  of  his  triumph.  But  you  shall  see  that 
he  lingers  fondly  about  the  place  where  the  fish 
are  displayed  upon  the  grass,  and  does  not  fail 
to  look  carefully  at  the  scales  when  they  are 
weighed,  and  has  an  attentive  ear  for  the  com- 
25 


FISHERMAN' S  LUCK 

ments  of  admiring  spectators.  You  shall  find, 
moreover,  that  he  is  not  unwilling  to  narrate  the 
story  of  the  capture  —  how  the  big  fish  rose 
short,  four  times,  to  four  different  flies,  and 
finally  took  a  small  Black  Dose,  and  played  all 
over  the  pool,  and  ran  down  a  terribly  stiff  rapid 
to  the  next  pool  below,  and  sulked  for  twenty 
minutes,  and  had  to  be  stirred  up  with  stones, 
and  made  such  a  long  fight  that,  when  he  came 
in  at  last,  the  hold  of  the  hook  was  almost  worn 
through,  and  it  fell  out  of  his  mouth  as  he 
touched  the  shore.  Listen  to  this  tale  as  it  is 
told,  with  endless  variations,  by  every  man  who 
has  brought  home  a  fine  fish,  and  you  will  per 
ceive  that  the  fisherman  does  care  for  his  luck, 
after  all. 

And  why  not  ?  I  am  no  friend  to  the  people 
who  receive  the  bounties  of  Providence  without 
visible  gratitude.  When  the  sixpence  falls  into 
your  hat,  you  may  laugh.  When  the  messenger 
of  an  unexpected  blessing  takes  you  by  the  hand 
and  lifts  you  up  and  bids  you  walk,  you  may 
leap  and  run  and  sing  for  joy,  even  as  the  lame 
man,  whom  St.  Peter  healed,  skipped  piously 
and  rejoiced  aloud  as  he  passed  through  the 
Beautiful  Gate  of  the  Temple.  There  is  no  vir 
tue  in  solemn  indifference.  Joy  is  just  as  much 
a  duty  as  beneficence  is.  Thankfulness  is  the 
other  side  of  mercy. 

26 


FISHERMAN1 S  LUCK 

When  you  have  good  luck  in  anything,  you 
ought  to  be  glad.  Indeed,  if  you  are  not  glad, 
you  are  not  really  lucky. 

But  boasting  and  self-glorification  I  would 
have  excluded,  and  most  of  all  from  the  behav 
iour  of  the  angler.  He,  more  than  other  men,  is 
dependent  for  his  success  upon  the  favour  of  an 
unseen  benefactor.  Let  his  skill  and  industry 
be  never  so  great,  he  can  do  nothing  unless  la 
bonne  chance  comes  to  him. 

I  was  once  fishing  on  a  fair  little  river,  the 
P'tit  Saguenay,  with  two  excellent  anglers  and 

pleasant  companions,  H.  E.  G and  C.  S. 

D .  They  had  done  all  that  was  humanly 

possible  to  secure  good  sport.  The  stream  had 
been  well  preserved.  They  had  boxes  full  of 
beautiful  flies,  and  casting-lines  imported  from 
England,  and  a  rod  for  every  fish  in  the  river. 
But  the  weather  was  "  dour,"  and  the  water 
"  drumly,"  and  every  day  the  lumbermen  sent  a 
"  drive  "  of  ten  thousand  spruce  logs  rushing 
down  the  flooded  stream.  For  three  days  we 
had  not  seen  a  salmon,  and  on  the  fourth,  de 
spairing,  we  went  down  to  angle  for  sea-trout  in 
the  tide  of  the  greater  Saguenay.  There,  in  the 
salt  water,  where  men  say  the  salmon  never  take 
the  fly,  H.  E.  G ,  fishing  with  a  small  trout- 
rod,  a  poor,  short  line,  and  an  ancient  red  ibis 
of  the  common  kind,  rose  and  hooked  a  lordly 
27 


FISHEBMAN'S  LUCK 

salmon  of  at  least  fi  ve-and-thirty  pounds.  Was 
not  this  pure  luck  ? 

Pride  is  surely  the  most  unbecoming  of  all 
vices  in  a  fisherman.  For  though  intelligence 
and  practice  and  patience  and  genius,  and  many 
other  noble  things  which  modesty  forbids  him 
to  mention,  enter  into  his  pastime,  so  that  it  is, 
as  Izaak  Walton  has  firmly  maintained,  an  art ; 
yet,  because  fortune  still  plays  a  controlling  hand 
in  the  game,  its  net  results  should  never  be 
spoken  of  with  a  haughty  and  vain  spirit.  Let 
not  the  angler  imitate  Timoleon,  who  boasted  of 
his  luck  and  lost  it.  It  is  tempting  Providence 
to  print  the  record  of  your  wonderful  catches  in 
the  sporting  newspapers ;  or  at  least,  if  it  must 
be  done,  there  should  stand  at  the  head  of  the 
column  some  humble,  thankful  motto,  like  "  Non 
nobis,  Domine"  Even  Father  Izaak,  when 
he  has  a  fish  on  his  line,  says,  with  a  due  sense 
of  human  limitations,  "  There  is  a  trout  now, 
and  a  good  one  too,  if  I  can  but  hold  him  !  " 

This  reminds  me  that  we  left  H.  E.  G ,  a 

few  sentences  back,  playing  his  unexpected 
salmon,  on  a  trout-rod,  in  the  Saguenay.  Four 
times  that  great  fish  leaped  into  the  air ;  twice 
he  suffered  the  pliant  reed  to  guide  him  toward 
the  shore,  and  twice  ran  out  again  to  deeper 
water.  Then  his  spirit  awoke  within  him  :  he 
bent  the  rod  like  a  willow  wand,  dashed  toward 
28 


FISHERMAN1 S  LUCK 

the  middle  of  the  river,  broke  the  line  as  if  it  had 
been  pack-thread,  and  sailed  triumphantly  away 
to  join  the  white  porpoises  that  were  tumbling 
in  the  tide.  "  Whe-e-ew"  they  said,  "  whe-e-ew  ! 
psha-a-aw  !  "  blowing  out  their  breath  in  long, 
soft  sighs  as  they  rolled  about  like  huge  snow 
balls  in  the  black  water.  But  what  did  H.  E. 

G say  ?  He  sat  him  quietly  down  upon  a 

rock  and  reeled  in  the  remnant  of  his  line,  utter 
ing  these  remarkable  and  Christian  words : 
"  Those  porpoises,"  said  he,  "  describe  the  situa 
tion  rather  mildly.  But  it  was  good  fun  while 
it  lasted." 

Again  I  remembered  a  saying  of  Walton : 
"Well,  Scholar,  you  must  endure  worse  luck 
sometimes,  or  you  will  never  make  a  good  an- 
gler." 

Or  a  good  man,  either,  I  am  sure.  For  he 
who  knows  only  how  to  enjoy,  and  not  to  endure, 
is  ill-fitted  to  go  down  the  stream  of  life  through 
such  a  world  as  this. 

I  would  not  have  you  to  suppose,  gentle  reader, 
that  in  discoursing  of  fisherman's  luck  I  have  in 
mind  only  those  things  which  may  be  taken  with 
a  hook.  It  is  a  parable  of  human  experience. 
I  have  been  thinking,  for  instance,  of  Walton's 
life  as  well  as  of  his  angling :  of  the  losses  and 
sufferings  that  he,  the  firm  Royalist,  endured 
when  the  Commonwealth  men  came  marching 
29 


FISHERMAN'S  LUCK 

into  London  town ;  of  the  consoling  days  that 
were  granted  to  him,  in  troublous  times,  on  the 
banks  of  the  Lea  and  the  Dove  and  the  New 
River,  and  the  good  friends  that  he  made  there, 
with  whom  he  took  sweet  counsel  in  adversity ; 
of  the  little  children  who  played  in  his  house  for 
a  few  years,  and  then  were  called  away  into  the 
silent  land  where  he  could  hear  their  voices  no 
longer.  I  was  thinking  how  quietly  and  peace 
ably  he  lived  through  it  all,  not  complaining  nor 
desponding,  but  trying  to  do  his  work  well, 
whether  he  was  keeping  a  shop  or  writing  books, 
and  seeking  to  prove  himself  an  honest  man  and 
a  cheerful  companion,  and  never  scorning  to 
take  with  a  thankful  heart  such  small  comforts 
and  recreations  as  came  to  him. 

It  is  a  plain,  homely,  old-fashioned  meditation, 
reader,  but  not  unprofitable.  When  I  talk  to 
you  of  fisherman's  luck,  I  do  not  forget  that 
there  are  deeper  things  behind  it.  I  remember 
that  what  we  call  our  fortunes,  good  or  ill,  are 
but  the  wise  dealings  and  distributions  of  a 
Wisdom  higher,  and  a  Kindness  greater,  than 
our  own.  And  I  suppose  that  their  meaning  is 
that  we  should  learn,  by  all  the  uncertainties  of 
our  life,  even  the  smallest,  how  to  be  brave  and 
steady  and  temperate  and  hopeful,  whatever 
comes,  because  we  believe  that  behind  it  all  there 
30 


FISHERMAN'S    LUCK 

lies  a  purpose  of  good,  and  over  it  all  there 
watches  a  providence  of  blessing. 

In  the  school  of  life  many  branches  of  know 
ledge  are  taught.     But  the  only  philosophy  that 
amounts  to  anything,  after  all,  is  just  the  secret 
of  making  friends  with  our  luck. 
31 


II 

THE  THRILLING  MOMENT 


"  In  angling;  as  in  all  other  recreations  into  which  excitement  enters, 
we  have  to  be  on  our  guard,  so  that  we  can  at  any  moment  throw  a 
weight  of  self-control  into  the  scale  against  misfortune  ;  and  happily 
we  can  study  to  some  purpose,  both  to  increase  our  pleasure  in  success 
and  to  lessen  our  distress  caused  by  what  goes  ill.  It  is  not  only  in 
cases  of  great  disasters,  however,  that  the  angler  needs  self-control. 
He  is  Perpetually  called  upon  to  use  it  to  withstand  small  exaspera 
tions,^ ' —>  SIR  EDWARD  GREY:  Fly-Fishing. 


THE  THRILLING  MOMENT 

EVERY  moment  of  life,  I  suppose,  is  more 
or  less  of  a  turning-point.  Opportunities  are 
swarming  around  us  all  the  time  thicker  than 
gnats  at  sundown.  We  walk  through  a  cloud 
of  chances,  and  if  we  were  always  conscious  of 
them  they  would  worry  us  almost  to  death. 

But  happily  our  sense  of  uncertainty  is  soothed 
and  cushioned  by  habit,  so  that  we  can  live  com 
fortably  with  it.  Only  now  and  then,  by  way 
of  special  excitement,  it  starts  up  wide  awake, 
We  perceive  how  delicately  our  fortune  is  poised 
and  balanced  on  the  pivot  of  a  single  incident. 
We  get  a  peep  at  the  oscillating  needle,  and, 
because  we  have  happened  to  see  it  tremble, 
we  call  our  experience  a  crisis. 

The  meditative  angler  is  not  exempt  from 
these  sensational  periods.  There  are  times  when 
all  the  uncertainty  of  his  chosen  pursuit  seems 
to  condense  itself  into  one  big  chance,  and  stand 
out  before  him  like  a  salmon  on  the  top  wave 
of  a  rapid.  He  sees  that  his  luck  hangs  by  a 
single  strand  of  gut,  and  he  cannot  tell  whether 
it  will  hold  or  break.  This  is  his  thrilling 
moment,  and  he  never  forgets  it. 
35 


THE  THBILLING  MOMENT 

have  been  unkind  to  disturb  them  with  expecta 
tions  which  might  never  be  realized.  My  im 
mediate  duty  was  to  get  within  casting  distance 
of  that  salmon  as  soon  as  possible. 

The  way  along  the  shore  of  the  pool  was 
difficult.  The  bank  was  very  steep,  and  the 
rocks  by  the  river's  edge  were  broken  and  glib- 
bery.  Presently  I  came  to  a  sheer  wall  of  stone, 
perhaps  thirty  feet  high,  rising  directly  from  the 
deep  water. 

There  was  a  tiny  ledge  or  crevice  running  part 
of  the  way  across  the  face  of  this  wall,  and  by 
this  four-inch  path  I  edged  along,  holding  my 
rod  in  one  hand,  and  clinging  affectionately  with 
the  other  to  such  clumps  of  grass  and  little 
bushes  as  I  could  find.  There  was  one  small 
huckleberry  plant  to  which  I  had  a  particular 
attachment.  It  was  fortunately  a  firm  little 
bush,  and  as  I  held  fast  to  it  I  remembered 
Tennyson's  poem  which  begins 

"  Flower  in  the  crannied  wall," 

and  reflected  that  if  I  should  succeed  in  plucking 
out  this  flower,  "  root  and  all,"  it  would  prob 
ably  result  in  an  even  greater  increase  of  know 
ledge  than  the  poet  contemplated. 

The  ledge  in  the  rock  now  came  to  an  end. 
But  below  me  in  the  pool  there  was  a  sunken 
reef ;  and  on  this  reef  a  long  log  had  caught, 
38 


THE  THRILLING  MOMENT 

with  one  end  sticking  out  of  the  water,  within 
jumping  distance.  It  was  the  only  chance.  To 
go  back  would  have  been  dangerous.  An  an 
gler  with  a  large  family  dependent  upon  him 
for  support  has  no  right  to  incur  unnecessary 
perils. 

Besides,  the  fish  was  waiting  for  me  at  the 
upper  end  of  the  pool ! 

So  I  jumped  ;  landed  on  the  end  of  the  log ; 
felt  it  settle  slowly  down ;  ran  along  it  like  a 
small  boy  on  a  seesaw,  and  leaped  off  into 
shallow  water  just  as  the  log  rolled  from  the 
ledge  and  lunged  out  into  the  stream. 

It  went  wallowing  through  the  pool  and  ca 
vorting  along  the  rapid  like  a  playful  hippo 
potamus.  I  watched  it  with  interest  and  con 
gratulated  myself  that  I  was  no  longer  embarked 
upon  it.  On  that  craft  a  voyage  down  the  Un 
pronounceable  River  would  have  been  short  but 
far  from  merry.  The  "  all  ashore  "  bell  was  not 
rung  early  enough.  I  just  got  off,  with  not  half 
a  second  to  spare. 

But  now  all  was  well,  for  I  was  within  reach 
of  the  fish.  A  little  scrambling  over  the  rocks 
brought  me  to  a  point  where  I  could  easily  cast 
over  him.  He  was  lying  in  a  swift,  smooth,  nar 
row  channel  between  two  large  stones.  It  was 
a  snug  resting-place,  and  no  "doubt  he  would 
remain  there  for  some  time.  So  I  took  out  my 
39 


THE  THEILLING  MOMENT 

fly-book  and  prepared  to  angle  for  him  accord 
ing  to  the  approved  rules  of  the  art. 

Nothing  is  more  foolish  in  sport  than  the 
habit  of  precipitation.  And  yet  it  is  a  fault 
to  which  I  am  singularly  subject.  As  a  boy,  in 
Brooklyn,  I  never  came  in  sight  of  the  Capi- 
toline  Skating  Pond,  after  a  long  ride  in  the 
horse-cars,  without  breaking  into  a  run  along 
the  board  walk,  buckling  on  my  skates  in  a 
furious  hurry,  and  flinging  myself  impetuously 
upon  the  ice,  as  if  I  feared  that  it  would  melt 
away  before  I  could  reach  it.  Now  this,  I  con 
fess,  is  a  grievous  defect,  which  advancing  years 
have  not  entirely  cured  ;  and  I  found  it  neces 
sary  to  take  myself  firmly,  as  it  were,  by  the 
mental  coat-collar,  and  resolve  not  to  spoil  the 
chance  of  catching  the  only  ouananiche  in  the 
Unpronounceable  River  by  undue  haste  in  fish 
ing  for  him. 

I  carefully  tested  a  brand-new  leader,  and 
attached  it  to  the  line  with  great  deliberation 
and  the  proper  knot.  Then  I  gave  my  whole 
mind  to  the  important  question  of  a  wise  selec 
tion  of  flies. 

It  is  astonishing  how  much  time  and  mental 
anxiety  a  man  can  spend  on  an  apparently 
simple  question  like  this.  When  you  are  buy 
ing  flies  in  a  shop  it  seems  as  if  you  never  had 
half  enough.  You  keep  on  picking  out  a  half- 
40 


THE  THRILLING  MOMENT 

dozen  of  each  new  variety  as  fast  as  the  enticing 
salesman  shows  them  to  you.  You  stroll  through 
the  streets  of  Montreal  or  Quebec  and  drop  in 
at  every  fishing-tackle  dealer's  to  see  whether 
you  can  find  a  few  more  good  flies.  Then, 
when  you  come  to  look  over  your  collection  at 
the  critical  moment  on  the  bank  of  a  stream,  it 
seems  as  if  you  had  ten  times  too  many.  And, 
spite  of  all,  the  precise  fly  that  you  need  is  not 
there. 

You  select  a  couple  that  you  think  fairly  good, 
lay  them  down  beside  you  in  the  grass,  and  go 
on  looking  through  the  book  for  something 
better.  Failing  to  satisfy  yourself,  you  turn  to 
pick  up  those  that  you  have  laid  out,  and  find 
that  they  have  mysteriously  vanished  from  the 
face  of  the  earth. 

Then  you  struggle  with  naughty  words  and 
relapse  into  a  condition  of  mental  palsy. 

Precipitation  is  a  fault.  But  deliberation,  for 
a  person  of  precipitate  disposition,  is  a  vice. 

The  best  thing  to  do  in  such  a  case  is  to  adopt 
some  abstract  theory  of  action  without  delay, 
and  put  it  into  practice  without  hesitation.  Then 
if  you  fail,  you  can  throw  the  responsibility  on 
the  theory. 

Now,  in  regard  to  flies  there  are  two  theories. 
The  old,  conservative  theory  is,  that  on  a  bright 
day  you  should  use  a  dark,  dull  fly,  because  it 
41 


THE  THRILLING  MOMENT 

is  less  conspicuous.  So  I  followed  that  theory 
first  and  put  on  a  Great  Dun  and  a  Dark 
Montreal.  I  cast  them  delicately  over  the  fish, 
but  he  would  not  look  at  them. 

Then  I  perverted  myself  to  the  new.  radical 
theory  which  says  that  on  a  bright  day  you 
must  use  a  light,  gay  fly,  because  it  is  more  in 
harmony  with  the  sky,  and  therefore  less  notice 
able.  Accordingly  I  put  on  a  Professor  and 
a  Parmacheene  Belle ;  but  this  combination  of 
learning  and  beauty  had  no  attraction  for  the 
ouananiche. 

Then  I  fell  back  on  a  theory  of  my  own,  to 
the  effect  that  the  ouananiche  have  an  aversion 
to  red,  and  prefer  yellow  and  brown.  So  I  tried 
various  combinations  of  flies  in  which  these  col 
ours  predominated. 

Then  I  abandoned  all  theories  and  went 
straight  through  my  book,  trying  something 
from  every  page,  and  winding  up  with  that  lure 
which  the  guides  consider  infallible,  —  "  a  Jock 
o'  Scott  that  cost  fifty  cents  at  Quebec."  But  it 
was  all  in  vain.  I  was  ready  to  despair. 

At  this  psychological  moment  I  heard  behind 
me  a  voice  of  hope,  —  the  song  of  a  grasshopper : 
not  one  of  those  fat-legged,  green-winged  im 
beciles  that  feebly  tumble  in  the  summer  fields, 
but  a  game  grasshopper,  —  one  of  those  thin- 
shanked,  brown-winged  fellows  that  leap  like 
42 


THE  THRILLING  MOMENT 

kangaroos,  and  fly  like  birds,  and  sing  Kri- 
kurtt-karet-kri  in  their  flight. 

It  is  not  really  a  song,  I  know,  but  it  sounds 
like  one  ;  and,  if  you  had  heard  that  Kri-karee 
carolling  as  I  chased  him  over  the  rocks,  you 
would  have  been  sure  that  he  was  mocking  me. 

I  believed  that  he  was  the  predestined  lure 
for  that  ouananiche  ;  but  it  was  hard  to  persuade 
him  to  fulfil  his  destiny.  I  slapped  at  him  with 
my  hat,  but  he  was  not  there.  I  grasped  at  him 
on  the  bushes,  and  brought  away  "  nothing  but 
leaves."  At  last  he  made  his  way  to  the  very 
edge  of  the  water  and  poised  himself  on  a  stone, 
with  his  legs  well  tucked  in  for  a  long  leap  and 
a  bold  flight  to  the  other  side  of  the  river.  It 
was  my  final  opportunity.  I  made  a  desperate 
grab  at  it  and  caught  the  grasshopper. 

My  premonition  proved  to  be  correct.  When 
that  Kri-karee,  invisibly  attached  to  my  leader, 
went  floating  down  the  stream,  the  ouananiche 
was  surprised.  It  was  the  fourt  enth  of  Sep 
tember,  and  he  had  supposed  the  grasshopper 
season  was  over.  The  unexpected  temptation 
was  too  strong  for  him.  He  rose  with  a  rush, 
and  in  an  instant  I  was  fast  to  the  best  land 
locked  salmon  of  the  year. 

But  the  situation  wras  not  without  its  embar 
rassments.  My  rod  weighed  only  four  and  a 
quarter  ounces ;  the  fish  weighed  between  six 
43 


THE  THRILLING  MOMENT 

and  seven  pounds.  The  water  was  furious  and 
headstrong.  I  had  only  thirty  yards  of  line 
and  no  landing-net. 

"  Hola  I  Ferdinand!''''  I  cried.  "  Apporte 
la  nette,  vite  !  A  beauty  !  Hurry  up  !  " 

I  thought  it  must  be  an  hour  while  he  was 
making  his  way  over  the  hill,  through  the  under 
brush,  around  the  cliff.  Again  and  again  the 
fish  ran  out  my  line  almost  to  the  last  turn.  A 
dozen  times  he  leaped  from  the  water,  shak 
ing  his  silvery  sides.  Twice  he  tried  to  cut  the 
leader  across  a  sunken  ledge.  But  at  last  he 
was  played  out,  and  came  in  quietly  towards 
the  point  of  the  rock.  At  the  same  moment 
Ferdinand  appeared  with  the  net. 

Now,  the  use  of  the  net  is  really  the  most  dif 
ficult  part  of  angling.  And  Ferdinand  is  the 
best  netsman  in  the  Lake  St.  John  country.  He 
never  makes  the  mistake  of  trying  to  scoop  a 
fish  in  motion.  He  does  not  grope  around  with 
aimless,  futile  strokes  as  if  he  were  feeling  for 
something  in  the  dark.  He  does  not  entangle 
the  dropper-fly  in  the  net  and  tear  the  tail-fly 
out  of  the  fish's  mouth.  He  does  not  get 
excited. 

He  quietly  sinks  the   net  in  the  water,  and 

waits  until  he  can  see  the  fish  distinctly,  lying 

perfectly  still  and  within  reach.    Then  he  makes 

a  swift  movement,  like  that  of  a  mower  swing- 

44 


The  situation  was  not  without  its  embarrassments. 


THE  THRILLING  MOMENT 

ing  the  scythe,  takes  the  fish  into  the  net  head 
first,  and  lands  him  without  a  slip. 

I  felt  sure  that  Ferdinand  was  going  to  do 
the  trick  in  precisely  this  way  with  my  ouana- 
niche.  Just  at  the  right  instant  he  made  one 
quick,  steady  swing  of  the  arms,  and  —  the  head 
of  the  net  broke  clean  oft'  the  handle  and  went 
floating  away  with  the  fish  in  it ! 

All  seemed  to  be  lost.  But  Ferdinand  was 
equal  to  the  occasion.  He  seized  a  long,  crooked 
stick  that  lay  in  a  pile  of  driftwood  on  the  shore, 
sprang  into  the  water  up  to  his  waist,  caught 
the  net  as  it  drifted  past,  and  dragged  it  to 
land,  with  the  ultimate  ouananiche,  the  prize  of 
the  season,  still  glittering  through  its  meshes. 

This  is  the  story  of  my  most  thrilling  moment 
as  an  angler. 

But  which  was  the  moment  of  the  deepest 
thrill? 

Was  it  when  the  huckleberry  bush  saved  me 
from  a  watery  grave,  or  when  the  log  rolled 
under  my  feet  and  started  down  the  river? 
Was  it  when  the  fish  rose,  or  when  the  net 
broke,  or  when  the  long  stick  captured  it  ? 

No,  it  was  none  of  these.  It  was  when  the 
Kri-karee  sat  with  his  legs  tucked  under  him  on 
the  brink  of  the  stream.  That  was  the  turning- 
point.  The  fortunes  of  the  day  depended  on  the 
comparative  quickness  of  the  reflex  action  of  his 
45 


THE  THRILLING  MOMENT 

neural  ganglia  and  mine.     That  was  the  thrill 
ing  moment. 

I  see  it  now.  A  crisis  is  really  the  common 
est  thing  in  the  world.  The  reason  why  life 
sometimes  seems  dull  to  us  is  because  we  do  not 
perceive  the  importance  and  the  excitement  of 
getting  bait. 


46 


Ill 

TALKABILITY 

A  PRELUDE  AND  THEME 
WITH  VARIATIONS 


'  He  praises  a  meditative  life,  and  with  evident  sincerity:  but  we 
feel  that  he  liked  nothing  so  well  as  good  talk,"  —  JAMES  RUSSELL 
LOWELL  :  Walton. 


TALKABILITY 


PRELUDE  —  ON  AN   OLD,   FOOLISH   MAXIM 

THE  inventor  of  the  familiar  maxim  that 
"  fishermen  must  not  talk  "  is  lost  in  the  mists  of 
antiquity,  and  well  deserves  his  fate.  For  a  more 
footless  rule,  a  conventionality  more  obscure 
and  aimless  in  its  tyranny,  was  never  imposed 
upon  an  innocent  and  honourable  occupation, 
to  diminish  its  pleasure  and  discount  its  profits. 
Why,  in  the  name  of  all  that  is  genial,  should 
anglers  go  about  their  harmless  sport  in  stealthy 
silence  like  conspirators,  or  sit  together  in  a 
boat,  dumb,  glum,  and  penitential,  like  naughty 
schoolboys  on  the  bench  of  disgrace  ?  'T  is  an 
Omorcan  superstition  ;  a  rule  without  a  reason  ; 
a  venerable,  idiotic  fashion  invented  to  repress 
lively  spirits  and  put  a  premium  on  stupidity. 

For  my  part,  I  incline  rather  to  the  opinion 
of  the  Neapolitan  fishermen  who  maintain  that 
a  certain  amount  of  noise,  of  certain  kinds,  is 
likely  to  improve  the  fishing,  and  who  have  a 
particular  song,  very  sweet  and  charming,  which 
they  sing  to  draw  the  fishes  around  them.  It  is 
49 


TALKABILITT 

narrated,  likewise,  of  the  good  St.  Brandan,  that 
on  his  notable  voyage  from  Ireland  in  search  of 
Paradise,  he  chanted  the  service  for  St.  Peter's 
day  so  pleasantly  that  a  subaqueous  audience  of 
all  sorts  and  sizes  was  attracted,  insomuch  that 
the  other  monks  began  to  be  afraid,  and  begged 
the  abbot  that  he  would  sing  a  little  lower,  for 
they  were  not  quite  sure  of  the  intention  of  the 
congregation.  Of  St.  Anthony  of  Padua  it  is 
said  that  he  even  succeeded  in  persuading  the 
fishes,  in  great  multitudes,  to  listen  to  a  sermon  ; 
and  that  when  it  was  ended  (it  must  be  noted 
that  it  was  both  short  and  cheerful)  they  bowed 
their  heads  and  moved  their  bodies  up  and  down 
with  every  mark  of  fondness  and  approval  of 
what  the  holy  father  had  spoken. 

If  we  can  believe  this,  surely  we  need  not  be 
incredulous  of  things  which  seem  to  be  no  less, 
but  rather  more,  in  harmony  with  the  course  of 
nature.  Creatures  who  are  sensible  to  the  at 
tractions  of  a  sermon  can  hardly  be  indifferent 
to  the  charm  of  other  kinds  of  discourse.  I  can 
easily  imagine  a  company  of  grayling  wishing 
to  overhear  a  conversation  between  I.  W.  and 
his  affectionate  (but  somewhat  prodigal)  son 
and  servant,  Charles  Cotton  ;  and  surely  every 
intelligent  salmon  in  Scotland  might  have  been 
glad  to  hear  Christopher  North  and  the  Ettrick 
Shepherd  bandy  jests  and  swap  stories.  As  for 
50 


TALKABILITY 

trout,  —  was  there  one  in  Massachusetts  that 
would  not  have  been  curious  to  listen  to  the  in 
timate  opinions  of  Daniel  Webster  as  he  loafed 
along  the  banks  of  the  Marshpee,  —  or  is  there 
one  in  Pennsylvania  to-day  that  might  not  be 
drawn  with  interest  and  delight  to  the  feet  of 
Joseph  Jefferson,  telling  how  he  conceived  and 
wrote  Rip  Van  Winkle  on  the  banks  of  a  trout- 
stream  ? 

Fishermen  must  be  silent  ?  On  the  contrary, 
it  is  far  more  likely  that  good  talk  may  promote 
good  fishing. 

All  this,  however,  goes  upon  the  assumption 
that  fish  can  hear,  in  the  proper  sense  of  the 
word.  And  this,  it  must  be  confessed,  is  an 
assumption  not  yet  fully  verified.  Experienced 
anglers  and  students  of  fishy  ways  are  divided 
upon  the  question.  It  is  beyond  a  doubt  that 
all  fishes,  except  the  very  lowest  forms,  have 
ears.  But  then  so  have  all  men ;  and  yet  we 
have  the  best  authority  for  believing  that  there 
are  many  who  "  having  ears,  hear  not." 

The  ears  of  fishes,  for  the  most  part,  are  in 
closed  in  their  skull,  and  have  no  outward  open 
ing.  Water  conveys  sound,  as  every  country 
boy  knows  who  has  tried  the  experiment  of  div 
ing  to  the  bottom  of  the  swimming-hole  and 
knocking  two  big  stones  together.  But  I  doubt 
whether  any  country  boy,  engaged  in  this  inter- 
51 


TALKABILITY 

esting  scientific  experiment,  has  heard  the  con 
versation  of  his  friends  on  the  bank  who  were 
engaged  in  hiding  his  clothes. 

There  are  many  curious  and  more  or  less  ven 
erable  stories  to  the  effect  that  fishes  may  be 
trained  to  assemble  at  the  ringing  of  a  bell  or 
the  beating  of  a  drum.  Lucian,  a  writer  of  the 
second  century,  tells  of  a  certain  lake  wherein 
many  sacred  fishes  were  kept,  of  which  the  lar 
gest  had  names  given  to  them,  and  came  when 
they  were  called.  But  Lucian  was  not  a  man  of 
especially  good  reputation,  and  there  is  an  air 
of  improbability  about  his  statement  that  the 
largest  fishes  came.  This  is  not  the  custom  of 
the  largest  fishes. 

In  the  present  century  there  was  a  tale  of  an 
eel  in  a  garden-well,  in  Scotland,  which  would 
come  to  be  fed  out  of  a  spoon  when  the  children 
called  him  by  his  singularly  inappropriate  name 
of  Rob  Roy.  This  seems  a  more  likely  story 
than  Lucian's ;  at  all  events  it  comes  from  a 
more  orthodox  atmosphere.  But  before  giving 
it  full  credence,  I  should  like  to  know  whether 
the  children,  when  they  called  "  Rob  Roy ! " 
stood  where  the  eel  could  see  the  spoon. 

On  the  other  side  of  the  question,  we  may 
quote  Mr.  Ronalds,  also  a  Scotchman,  and  the 
learned  author  of  The  Fly-Fisher's  Entomo 
logy,  who  conducted  a  series  of  experiments 
52 


TALKABILITY 

which  proved  that  even  trout,  the  most  fuga 
cious  of  fish,  are  not  in  the  least  disturbed  by 
the  discharge  of  a  gun,  provided  the  flash  is 
concealed.  Mr.  Henry  P.  Wells,  the  author  of 
The  American  /Salmon  Angler,  says  that  he  has 
"  never  been  able  to  make  a  sound  in  the  air 
which  seemed  to  produce  the  slightest  effect 
upon  trout  in  the  water." 

So  the  controversy  on  the  hearing  of  fishes 
continues,  and  the  conclusion  remains  open. 
Every  man  is  at  liberty  to  embrace  that  side 
which  pleases  him  best.  You  may  think  that 
the  finny  tribes  are  as  sensitive  to  sound  as 
Fine  Ear,  in  the  German  fairy-tale,  who  could 
hear  the  grass  grow.  Or  you  may  hold  the  op 
posite  opinion,  that  they  are 

"  Deafer  than  the  blue-eyed  cat." 

But  whichever  theory  you  adopt,  in  practice,  if 
you  are  a  wise  fisherman,  you  will  steer  a  mid 
dle  course,  between  one  thing  which  must  be 
left  undone  and  another  thing  which  should  be 
done.  You  will  refrain  from  stamping  on  the 
bank,  or  knocking  on  the  side  of  the  boat,  or 
dragging  the  anchor  among  the  stones  on  the 
bottom  ;  for  when  the  water  vibrates  the  fish  are 
likely  to  vanish.  But  you  will  indulge  as  freely 
as  you  please  in  pleasant  discourse  with  your 
comrade ;  for  it  is  certain  that  fishing  is  never 
53 


TALKABILITY 

hindered,  and  may  even  be  helped,  in  one  way 
or  another,  by  good  talk. 

I  should  therefore  have  no  hesitation  in  ad 
vising  any  one  to  choose,  for  companionship  on 
an  angling  expedition,  long  or  short,  a  person 
who  has  the  rare  merit  of  being  talkable. 

II 

THEME  —  ON   A   SMALL,    USEFUL   VIRTUE 

"  Talkable  "  is  not  a  new  adjective.  But  it 
needs  a  new  definition,  and  the  complement  of 
a  corresponding  noun.  I  would  fain  set  down 
on  paper  some  observations  and  reflections  which 
may  serve  to  make  its  meaning  clear,  and  render 
due  praise  to  that  most  excellent  quality  in  man 
or  woman,  —  especially  in  anglers,  —  the  small 
but  useful  virtue  of  talkability. 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson  uses  the  word  "  talk- 
able  "  in  one  of  his  essays  to  denote  a  certain 
distinction  among  the  possible  subjects  of  hu 
man  speech.  There  are  some  things,  he  says  in 
effect,  about  which  you  can  really  talk ;  and 
there  are  other  things  about  which  you  cannot 
properly  talk  at  all,  but  only  dispute,  or  ha 
rangue,  or  prose,  or  moralize,  or  chatter. 

After  mature  consideration  I  have  arrived  at 
the  opinion  that  this  distinction  among  the 
themes  of  speech  is  an  illusion.  It  does  not 
54 


TALKABILITY 

exist.  All  subjects,  "  the  foolish  things  of  the 
world,  and  the  weak  things  of  the  world,  and 
base  things  of  the  world,  yea,  and  things  that 
are  not,"  may  provide  matter  for  good  talk,  if 
only  the  right  people  are  engaged  in  the  enter 
prise.  I  know  a  man  who  can  make  a  descrip 
tion  of  the  weather  as  entertaining  as  a  tune  on 
the  violin ;  and  even  on  the  threadbare  theme 
of  the  waywardness  of  domestic  servants,  I  have 
heard  a  discreet  woman  play  the  most  diverting 
and  instructive  variations. 

No,  the  quality  of  talkability  does  not  mark 
a  distinction  among  things ;  it  denotes  a  differ 
ence  among  people.  It  is  not  an  attribute  un 
equally  distributed  among  material  objects  and 
abstract  ideas.  It  is  a  virtue  which  belongs  to 
the  mind  and  moral  character  of  certain  persons. 
It  is  a  reciprocal  human  quality ;  active  as  well 
as  passive  ;  a  power  of  bestowing  and  receiving. 

An  amiable  person  is  one  who  has  a  capacity 
for  loving  and  being  loved.  An  affable  person 
is  one  who  is  ready  to  speak  and  to  be  spoken 
to,  —  as,  for  example,  Milton's  "  affable  arch 
angel  "  Raphael ;  though  it  must  be  confessed 
that  he  laid  the  chief  emphasis  on  the  active  side 
of  his  affability.  A  "  clubable  "  person  (to  use 
a  word  which  Dr.  Samuel  Johnson  invented  but 
did  not  put  into  his  dictionary)  is  one  who  is  fit 
for  the  familiar  give  and  take  of  club-life.  A 
55 


TALEABILITY 

talkable  person,  therefore,  is  one  whose  nature 
and  disposition  invite  the  easy  interchange  of 
thoughts  and  feelings,  one  in  whose  company  it 
is  a  pleasure  to  talk  or  to  be  talked  to. 

Now  this  good  quality  of  talkability  is  to  be 
distinguished,  very  strictly  and  inflexibly,  from 
the  bad  quality  which  imitates  it  and  often  brings 
it  into  discredit.  I  mean  the  vice  of  talkative 
ness.  That  is  a  selfish,  one-sided,  inharmonious 
affair,  full  of  discomfort,  and  productive  of 
most  unchristian  feelings. 

You  may  observe  the  operations  of  this  vice 
not  only  in  human  beings,  but  also  in  birds. 
All  the  birds  in  the  bush  can  make  some  kind 
of  a  noise ;  and  most  of  them  like  to  do  it ;  and 
some  of  them  like  it  a  great  deal  and  do  it  very 
much.  But  it  is  not  always  for  edification,  nor 
are  the  most  vociferous  and  garrulous  birds 
commonly  the  most  pleasing.  A  parrot,  for  in 
stance,  in  your  neighbour's  back  yard,  in  the 
summer  time,  when  the  windows  are  open,  is  not 
an  aid  to  the  development  of  Christian  charac 
ter.  I  knew  a  man  who  had  to  stay  in  the  city 
all  summer,  and  in  the  autumn  was  asked  to 
describe  the  character  and  social  standing  of  a 
new  family  that  had  moved  into  his  neignbour- 
hood.  Were  they  "  nice  people,"  well-bred,  in 
telligent,  respectable?  "Well,"  said  he,  "I 
don't  know  what  your  standards  are,  and  would 
56 


TALKABILITY 

prefer  not  to  say  anything  libellous  ;  but  I  '11 
tell  you  in  a  word,  —  they  are  the  kind  of  peo 
ple  that  keep  a  parrot." 

Then  there  is  the  English  sparrow!  What 
an  insufferable  chatterbox,  what  an  incurable 
scold,  what  a  voluble  and  tiresome  blackguard 
is  this  little  feathered  cockney.  There  is  not  a 
sweet  or  pleasant  word  in  all  his  vocabulary. 

I  am  convinced  that  he  talks  altogether  of 
scandals  and  fights  and  street-sweepings. 

The  kingdom  of  ornithology  is  divided  into 
two  departments,  —  real  birds  and  English  spar 
rows.  English  sparrows  are  not  real  birds ; 
they  are  little  beasts. 

There  was  a  church  in  Brooklyn  which  was 
once  covered  with  a  great  and  spreading  vine,  in 
which  the  sparrows  built  innumerable  nests. 
These  ungodly  little  birds  kept  up  such  a  din 
that  it  was  impossible  to  hear  the  service  of  the 
sanctuary.  The  faithful  clergy  strained  their 
voices  to  the  verge  of  ministerial  sore  throat, 
but  the  people  had  no  peace  in  their  devotions 
until  the  vine  was  cut  down,  and  the  Anglican 
intruders  were  evicted. 

A  talkative  person  is  like  an  English  spar 
row,  —  a  bird  that  cannot  sing,  and  will  sing, 
and  ought  to  be  persuaded  not  to  try  to  sing. 
But  a  talkable  person  has  the  gift  that  belongs 
to  the  wood  thrush  and  the  veery  and  the  wren, 
57 


TALKABILITY 

the  oriole  and  the  white-throat  and  the  rose- 
breasted  grosbeak,  the  mockingbird  and  the 
robin  (sometimes)  ;  and  the  brown  thrush ;  yes, 
the  brown  thrush  has  it  to  perfection,  if  you  can 
catch  him  alone,  —  the  gift  of  being  interesting, 
charming,  delightful,  in  the  most  off-hand  and 
various  modes  of  utterance. 

Talkability  is  not  at  all  the  same  thing  as 
eloquence.  The  eloquent  man  surprises,  over 
whelms,  and  sometimes  paralyzes  us  by  the 
display  of  his  power.  Great  orators  are  seldom 
good  talkers.  Oratory  in  exercise  is  masterful 
and  jealous,  and  intolerant  of  all  interruptions. 
Oratory  in  preparation  is  silent,  self-centred,  un 
communicative.  The  painful  truth  of  this  re 
mark  may  be  seen  in  the  row  of  countenances 
along  the  president's  table  at  a  public  banquet 
about  nine  o'clock  in  the  evening.  The  bicycle- 
face  seems  unconstrained  and  merry  by  compar 
ison  with  the  after-dinner-speech-face.  The  flow 
of  table-talk  is  corked  by  the  anxious  conception 
of  post-prandial  oratory. 

Thackeray,  in  one  of  his  Roundabout  Papers, 
speaks  of  "  the  sin  of  tall-talking,"  which,  he 
says,  "  is  the  sin  of  schoolmasters,  governesses, 
critics,  sermoners,  and  instructors  of  young  or 
old  people."  But  this  is  not  in  accord  with  my 
observation.  I  should  say  it  was  rather  the  sin 
of  dilettanti  who  are  ambitious  of  that  high-step- 
58 


TALKABILITY 

ping  accomplishment  which  is  called  "  conversa 
tional  ability." 

This  has  usually,  to  my  mind,  something  set 
and  artificial  about  it,  although  in  its  most  per 
fect  form  the  art  almost  succeeds  in  concealing 
itself.  But,  at  all  events,  "  conversation  "  is  talk 
in  evening  dress,  with  perhaps  a  little  powder 
and  a  touch  of  rouge.  'T  is  like  one  of  those 
wise  virgins  who  are  said  to  look  their  best 
by  lamplight.  And  doubtless  this  is  an  excel 
lent  thing,  and  not  without  its  advantages. 
But  for  my  part,  commend  me  to  one  who  loses 
nothing  by  the  early  morning  illumination,  — 
one  who  brings  all  her  attractions  with  her 
when  she  conies  down  to  breakfast,  —  she  is  a 
very  pleasant  maid. 

Talk  is  that  form  of  human  speech  which  is 
exempt  from  all  duties,  foreign  and  domestic. 
It  is  the  nearest  thing  in  the  world  to  thinking 
and  feeling  aloud.  It  is  necessarily  not  for  pub 
lication,  —  solely  an  evidence  of  good  faith  and 
mutual  kindness.  You  tell  me  what  you  have 
seen  and  what  you  are  thinking  about,  because 
you  take  it  for  granted  that  it  will  interest  and 
entertain  me  ;  and  you  listen  to  my  replies  and 
the  recital  of  my  adventures  and  opinions,  be 
cause  you  know  I  like  to  tell  them,  and  because 
you  find  something  in  them,  of  one  kind  or 
another,  that  you  care  to  hear.  It  is  a  nice 
59 


TALKAB1LITY 

game,  with  easy,  simple  rules,  and  endless  possi 
bilities  of  variation.  And  if  we  go  into  it  with 
the  right  spirit,  and  play  it  for  love,  without 
heavy  stakes,  the  chances  are  that  if  we  happen 
to  be  fairly  talkable  people  we  shall  have  one  of 
the  best  things  in  the  world,  —  a  mighty  good 
talk. 

What  is  there  in  this  anxious,  hide-bound, 
tiresome  existence  of  ours,  more  restful  and 
remunerative  ?  Montaigne  says,  "  The  use  of  it 
is  more  sweet  than  of  any  other  action  of  life  ; 
and  for  that  reason  it  is  that,  if  I  were  compelled 
to  choose,  I  should  sooner,  I  think,  consent  to 
lose  my  sight  than  my  hearing  and  speech." 
The  very  aimlessness  with  which  it  proceeds,  the 
serene  disregard  of  all  considerations  of  profit 
and  propriety  with  which  it  follows  its  wander 
ing  course,  and  brings  up  anywhere  or  nowhere, 
to  camp  for  the  night,  is  one  of  its  attractions. 
It  is  like  a  day's  fishing,  not  valuable  chiefly  for 
the  fish  you  bring  home,  but  for  the  pleasant 
country  through  which  it  leads  you,  and  the 
state  of  personal  well-being  and  health  in  which 
it  leaves  you,  warmed,  and  cheered,  and  more 
content  with  life  and  friendship. 

The  order  in  which  you  set  out  upon  a  talk, 

the  path  which  you  pursue,  the  rules  which  you 

observe  or  disregard,  make  but  little  difference 

in  the  end.     You  may  follow  the  advice  of  Inv 

60 


TALKABILITY 

manuel  Kant  if  you  like,  and  begin  with  the 
weather  and  the  roads,  and  go  on  to  current 
events,  and  wind  up  with  history,  art,  and  phi 
losophy.  Or  you  may  reverse  the  order  if  you 
prefer,  like  that  admirable  talker  Clarence  K., 
who  usually  sets  sail  on  some  highly  abstract 
paradox,  such  as  "  Civilization  is  a  nervous 
disease,"  and  lands  in  a  tale  of  adventure  in 
Mexico  or  the  Rocky  Mountains.  Or  you  may 
follow  the  example  of  Edward  E.,  who  starts  in 
at  the  middle  and  works  out  at  either  end,  and 
sometimes  at  both.  It  makes  no  difference.  If 
the  thing  is  in  you  at  all,  you  will  find  good  mat 
ter  for  talk  anywhere  along  the  route.  Hear 
what  Montaigne  says  again  :  "  In  our  discourse 
all  subjects  are  alike  to  me  ;  let  there  be  neither 
weight  nor  depth,  't  is  all  one  ;  there  is  yet  grace 
and  pertinence  ;  all  there  is  tinted  with  a  ma 
ture  and  constant  judgment,  and  mixed  with 
goodness,  freedom,  gayety,  and  friendship." 

How  close  to  the  mark  the  old  essayist  sends 
his  arrow  !  He  is  right  about  the  essential  qual 
ities  of  good  talk.  They  are  not  merely  intel 
lectual.  They  are  moral.  Goodness  of  heart, 
freedom  of  spirit,  gayety  of  temper,  and  friend 
liness  of  disposition,  —  these  are  four  fine  things, 
and  doubtless  as  acceptable  to  God  as  they  are 
agreeable  to  men.  The  talkability  which  springs 
out  of  these  qualities  has  its  roots  in  a  good  soil. 
61 


TALKABILITY 

On  such  a  plant  one  need  not  look  for  the  poison 
berries  of  malign  discourse,  nor  for  the  Dead 
Sea  apples  of  frivolous  mockery.  But  fair  fruit 
will  be  there,  pleasant  to  the  sight  and  good  for 
food,  brought  forth  abundantly  according  to  the 
season. 

Ill 

VARIATIONS  —  ON   A   PLEASANT   PHRASE   FROM   MON 
TAIGNE 

Montaigne  has  given  as  our  text,  "  Goodness, 
freedom,  gayety,  and  friendship,"  —  these  are 
the  conditions  which  produce  talkability.  And 
on  this  fourfold  theme  we  may  embroider  a  few 
variations,  by  way  of  exposition  and  enlargement. 

Goodness  is  the  first  thing  and  the  most  need 
ful.  An  ugly,  envious,  irritable  disposition  is 
not  fitted  for  talk.  The  occasions  for  offence 
are  too  numerous,  and  the  way  into  strife  is  too 
short  and  easy.  A  touch  of  good-natured  com- 
bativeness,  a  fondness  for  brisk  argument,  a 
readiness  to  try  a  friendly  bout  with  any  comer, 
on  any  ground,  is  a  decided  advantage  in  a 
talker.  It  breaks  up  the  offensive  monotony  of 
polite  concurrence,  and  makes  things  lively. 
But  quarrelsomeness  is  quite  another  affair,  and 
very  fatal. 

I  am  always  a  little  uneasy  in  a  discourse  with 
the  Reverend  Bellicosus  Macduff.  It  is  like 
62 


TALKABILITY 

playing  golf  on  links  liable  to  earthquakes. 
One  never  knows  when  the  landscape  be  thrown 
into  convulsions.  Macduff  has  a  tendency  to 
regard  a  difference  of  opinion  as  a  personal  in 
sult.  If  he  makes  a  bad  stroke  he  seems  to 
think  that  the  way  to  retrieve  it  is  to  deliver  the 
next  one  on  the  head  of  the  other  player.  He 
does  not  tarry  for  the  invitation  to  lay  on  ;  and 
before  you  know  what  has  happened  you  find 
yourself  in  a  position  where  you  are  obliged  to 
cry,  "  Hold,  enough !  "  and  to  be  liberally 
damned  without  any  bargain  to  that  effect. 
This  is  discouraging,  and  calculated  to  make 
one  wish  that  human  intercourse  might  be  put, 
as  far  as  Macduff  is  concerned,  upon  the  gold 
basis  of  silence. 

On  the  other  hand,  what  a  delight  it  was  to 
talk  with  that  old  worthy,  Chancellor  Howard 
Crosby.  He  was  a  fighting  man  for  four  or  five 
generations  back,  Dutch  on  one  side,  English  on 
the  other.  But  there  was  not  one  little  drop  of 
gall  in  his  blood.  His  opinions  were  fixed  to  a 
degree ;  he  loved  to  do  battle  for  them ;  he 
never  changed  them  —  at  least  never  in  the 
course  of  the  same  discussion.  He  admired  and 
respected  a  gallant  adversary,  and  urged  him 
on,  with  quips  and  puns  and  daring  assaults  and 
unqualified  statements,  to  do  his  best.  Easy 
victories  were  not  to  his  taste.  Even  if  he 
63 


TALKABILITY 

joined  with  you  in  laying  out  some  common 
falsehood  for  burial,  you  might  be  sure  that  be 
fore  the  affair  was  concluded  there  would  be 
every  prospect  of  what  an  Irishman  would  call 
"  an  elegant  wake."  If  you  stood  up  against 
him  on  one  of  his  favorite  subjects  of  discussion 
you  must  be  prepared  for  hot  work.  You  would 
have  to  take  off  your  coat.  But  when  it  was 
over  he  would  be  the  man  to  help  you  on  with 
it  again  ;  and  you  would  walk  home  together 
arm  in  arm,  through  the  twilight,  smoking  the 
pipe  of  peace.  Talk  like  that  does  good.  It 
quickens  the  beating  of  the  heart,  and  leaves  no 
scars  upon  it. 

But  this  manly  spirit,  which  loves 

"  To  drink  delight  of  battle  with  its  peers," 

is  a  very  different  thing  from  that  mean,  bad, 
hostile  temper  which  loves  to  inflict  wounds  and 
injuries  just  for  the  sake  of  showing  power,  and 
which  is  never  so  happy  as  when  it  is  making 
some  one  wince.  There  are  such  people  in  the 
world,  and  sometimes  their  brilliancy  tempts  us 
to  forget  their  malignancy.  But  to  have  much 
converse  with  them  is  as  if  we  should  make  play 
mates  of  rattlesnakes  for  their  grace  of  move 
ment  and  swiftness  of  stroke. 

I  knew   a  man   once  (I  will   not   name  him 
even   with   an   initial)  who  was   malignant   to 
64 


TALKABILITY 

the  core.  Learned,  industrious,  accomplished, 
he  kept  all  his  talents  at  the  service  of  a  per 
fect  genius  for  hatred.  If  you  crossed  his  path 
but  once,  he  would  never  cease  to  curse  you. 
The  grave  might  close  over  you,  but  he  would 
revile  your  epitaph  and  mock  at  your  memory. 
It  was  not  even  necessary  that  you  should  do 
anything  to  incur  his  enmity.  It  was  enough 
to  be  upright  and  sincere  and  successful,  to 
waken  the  wrath  of  this  Shimei.  Integrity  was 
an  offence  to  him,  and  excellence  of  any  kind 
filled  him  with  spleen.  There  was  no  good 
cause  within  his  horizon  that  he  did  not  give  a 
bad  word  to,  and  no  decent  man  in  the  com 
munity  whom  he  did  not  try  either  to  use  or  to 
abuse.  To  listen  to  him  or  to  read  what  he 
had  written  was  to  learn  to  think  a  little  worse 
of  every  one  that  he  mentioned,  and  worst  of 
all  of  him.  He  had  the  air  of  a  gentleman,  the 
vocabulary  of  a  scholar,  the  style  of  a  Junius, 
and  the  heart  of  a  Thersites. 

Talk,  in  such  company,  is  impossible.  The 
sense  of  something  evil,  lurking  beneath  the  play 
of  wit,  is  like  the  knowledge  that  there  are 
snakes  in  the  grass.  Every  step  must  be  taken 
with  fear.  But  the  real  pleasure  of  a  walk 
through  the  meadow  conies  from  the  feeling  of 
security,  of  ease,  of  safe  and  happy  abandon  to 
the  mood  of  the  moment.  This  ungirdled  and 


TALKABILITY 

unguarded  felicity  in  mutual  discourse  depends, 
after  all,  upon  the  assurance  of  real  goodness  in 
your  companion.  I  do  not  mean  a  stiff  impec 
cability  of  conduct.  Prudes  and  Pharisees  are 
poor  comrades.  I  mean  simply  goodness  of 
heart,  the  wholesome,  generous,  kindly  quality 
which  thinketh  no  evil,  rejoiceth  not  in  iniquity, 
hopeth  all  things,  endureth  all  things,  and  wish- 
eth  well  to  all  men.  Where  you  feel  this  qual 
ity  you  can  let  yourself  go,  in  the  ease  of  hearty 
talk. 

Freedom  is  the  second  note  that  Montaigne 
strikes,  and  it  is  essential  to  the  harmony  of 
talking.  Very  careful,  prudent,  precise  persons 
are  seldom  entertaining  in  familiar  speech.  They 
are  like  tennis  players  in  too  fine  clothes.  They 
think  more  of  their  costume  than  of  the  game. 

A  mania  for  absolutely  correct  pronunciation 
is  fatal.  The  people  who  are  afflicted  with  this 
painful  ailment  are  as  anxious  about  their  utter 
ance  as  dyspeptics  about  their  diet.  They  move 
through  their  sentences  as  delicately  as  Agag 
walked.  Their  little  airs  of  nicety,  their  starched 
cadences  and  frilled  phrases  seem  as  if  they 
had  just  been  taken  out  of  a  literary  bandbox. 
If  perchance  you  happen  to  misplace  an  accent, 
you  shall  see  their  eyebrows  curl  up  like  an  in 
terrogation  mark,  and  they  will  ask  you  what 
66 


TALKABILITY 

authority  you  have  for  that  pronunciation.  As 
if,  forsooth,  a  man  could  not  talk  without  book- 
license  !  As  if  he  must  have  a  permit  from  some 
dusty  lexicon  before  he  can  take  a  good  word 
into  his  mouth  and  speak  it  out  like  the  people 
with  whom  he  has  lived  ! 

The  truth  is  that  the  man  who  is  very  partic 
ular  not  to  commit  himself,  in  pronunciation  or 
otherwise,  and  talks  as  if  his  remarks  were  being 
taken  down  in  shorthand,  and  shudders  at  the 
thought  of  making  a  mistake,  will  hardly  be  able 
to  open  your  heart  or  let  out  the  best  that  is  in 
his  own. 

Eeserve  and  precision  are  a  great  protection 
to  overrated  reputations  ;  but  they  are  death  to 
talk. 

In  talk  it  is  not  correctness  of  grammar  nor 
elegance  of  enunciation  that  charms  us  ;  it  is 
spirit,  verve,  the  sudden  turn  of  humour,  the 
keen,  pungent  taste  of  life.  For  this  reason  a 
touch  of  dialect,  a  flavour  of  brogue,  is  delight 
ful.  Any  dialect  is  classic  that  has  conveyed 
beautiful  thoughts.  Who  that  ever  talked  with 
the  poet  Tennyson,  when  he  let  himself  go,  over 
the  pipes,  would  miss  the  savour  of  his  broad- 
rolling  Lincolnshire  vowels,  now  heightening  the 
humour,  now  deepening  the  pathos,  of  his  genu 
ine  manly  speech  ?  There  are  many  good  stories 
lingering  in  the  memories  of  those  who  knew 
67 


TALKABILITY 

Dr.  James  McCosh,  the  late  president  of  Prince, 
ton  University,  —  stories  too  good,  I  fear,  to  get 
into  a  biography  ;  but  the  best  of  them,  in  print, 
would  not  have  the  snap  and  vigour  of  the  poor 
est  of  them,  in  talk,  with  his  own  inimitable 
Scotch-Irish  brogue  to  set  it  forth. 

A  brogue  is  not  a  fault.  It  is  a  beauty,  an 
heirloom,  a  distinction.  A  local  accent  is  like 
a  landed  inheritance  ;  it  marks  a  man's  place  in 
the  world,  tells  where  he  comes  from.  Of  course 
it  is  possible  to  have  too  much  of  it.  A  man 
does  not  need  to  carry  the  soil  of  his  whole  farm 
around  with  him  on  his  boots.  But,  within  lim 
its,  the  accent  of  a  native  region  is  delightful. 
'T  is  the  flavour  of  heather  in  the  grouse,  the 
taste  of  wild  herbs  and  evergreen-buds  in  the 
venison.  I  like  the  maple-sugar  tang  of  the 
Vermonter's  sharp-edged  speech ;  the  round, 
full-waisted  r's  of  Pennsylvania  and  Ohio  ;  the 
soft,  indolent  vowels  of  the  South.  One  of  the 
best  talkers  now  living  is  a  schoolmaster  from 
Virginia,  Colonel  Gordon  McCabe.  I  once 
crossed  the  ocean  with  him  on  a  stream  of  sto 
ries  that  reached  from  Liverpool  to  New  York. 
He  did  not  talk  in  the  least  like  a  book.  He 
talked  like  a  Virginian. 

When  Montaigne  mentions  gayety  as  the  third 
element  of  satisfying  discourse,  I  fancy  ne  does 
68 


TALKABILITY 

not  mean  mere  fun,  though  that  has  its  ^alue  at 
the  right  time  and  place.  But  there  is  another 
quality  which  is  far  more  valuable  and  always 
fit.  Indeed  it  underlies  the  best  fun  and  makes 
it  wholesome.  It  is  cheerfulness,  the  temper 
which  makes  the  best  of  things  and  squeezes  the 
little  drops  of  honey  even  out  of  thistle-blos 
soms.  I  think  this  is  what  Montaigne  meant. 
Certainly  it  is  what  he  had. 

Cheerfulness  is  the  background  of  all  good 
talk.  A  sense  of  humour  is  a  means  of  grace. 
With  it  I  have  heard  a  pleasant  soul  make  even 
that  most  perilous  of  all  subjects,  the  description 
of  a  long  illness,  entertaining.  The  various 
physicians  moved  through  the  recital  as  excel 
lent  comedians,  and  the  medicines  appeared  like 
a  succession  of  timely  jests. 

There  is  no  occasion  upon  which  this  precious 
element  of  talkability  comes  out  stronger  than 
when  we  are  on  a  journey.  Travel  with  a  cheer 
less  and  easily  discouraged  companion  is  an  un 
adulterated  misery.  But  a  cheerful  comrade  is 
better  than  a  waterproof  coat  and  a  foot- warmer. 

I  remember  riding  once  with  my  lady  Gray- 
gown  fifteen  miles  through  a  cold  rainstorm, 
in  an  open  buckboard,  over  the  worst  road  in 
the  world  from  Lac  a  la  Belle  JRiviere  to  the 
Metabetchouan  River.  Such  was  the  cheerful 
ness  of  her  ejaculations  (the  only  possible  form 
69 


TALKABILITY 

of  talk)  that  we  arrived  at  our  destination  as 
warm  and  merry  as  if  we  had  been  sitting  be 
side  a  roaring  camp-fire. 

But  after  all,  the  very  best  thing  in  good  talk, 
and  the  thing  that  helps  it  most,  is  friendship. 
How  it  dissolves  the  barriers  that  divide  us,  and 
loosens  all  constraint,  and  diffuses  itself  like 
some  fine  old  cordial  through  all  the  veins  of 
life  —  this  feeling  that  we  understand  and  trust 
each  other,  and  wish  each  other  heartily  well ! 
Everything  into  which  it  really  comes  is  good. 
It  transforms  letter-writing  from  a  task  into  a 
pleasure.  It  makes  music  a  thousand  times 
more  sweet.  The  people  who  play  and  sing  not 
at  us,  but  to  us,  —  how  delightful  it  is  to  listen 
to  them !  Yes,  there  is  a  talkability  that  can 
express  itself  even  without  words.  There  is  an 
exchange  of  thought  and  feeling  which  is  happy 
alike  in  speech  and  in  silence.  It  is  quietness 
pervaded  with  friendship. 

Having  come  thus  far  in  the  exposition  of 
Montaigne,  I  shall  conclude  with  an  opinion  of 
my  own,  even  though  I  cannot  quote  a  sentence 
of  his  to  back  it. 

The  one  person  of  all  the  world  in  whom  talk- 
ability  is  most  desirable,  and  talkativeness  least 
endurable,  is  a  wife. 

70 


IV 

A  WILD  STRAWBERRY 


"*  Suck  is  the  story  of  the  Boblink ;  once  spiritual,  musical,  admired, 
the  joy  of  the  meado^us,  and  the  favourite  bird  of  spring  ;  finally  a 
gross  little  sensualist  who  expiates  his  sensuality  in  the  larder.  His 
story  contains  a  moral,  worthy  the  attention  of  all  little  birds  and  little 
boys  ;  warning  them,  to  keep  to  those  refined  and  intellectual  pursuits 
which  raised  him  to  so  high  a  pitch  of  popularity  during  the  early  part 
of  his  career ;  but  to  eschew  all  tendency  to  that  gross  and  dissipated 
indulgence,  which  brought  this  mistaken  little  bird  to  an  untimely  end." 
—  WASHINGTON  IRVING:  Wolf  erf  s  Roost. 


A  WILD  STRAWBERRY 

THE  Swiftwater  brook  was  laughing  softly  to 
itself  as  it  ran  through  a  strip  of  hemlock  forest 
on  the  edge  of  the  Woodlings*  farm.  Among 
the  evergreen  branches  overhead  the  gayly- 
dressed  warblers,  —  little  dandies  of  the  forest, 
—  were  flitting  to  and  fro,  lisping  their  June 
songs  of  contented  love :  milder,  slower,  lazier 
notes  than  those  in  which  they  voiced  the  amour- 
ous  raptures  of  May.  Prince's  Pine  and  golden 
loose-strife  and  pink  laurel  and  blue  hare-bells 
and  purple-fringed  orchids,  and  a  score  of  lovely 
flowers  were  all  ablcx>m.  The  late  spring  had 
hindered  some ;  the  sudden  heats  of  early  sum 
mer  had  hastened  others ;  and  now  they  seemed 
to  come  out  all  together,  as  if  Nature  had  sud 
denly  tilted  up  her  cornucopia  and  poured  forth 
her  treasures  in  spendthrift  joy. 

I  lay  on  a  mossy  bank  at  the  foot  of  a  tree, 
filling  my  pipe  after  a  frugal  lunch,  and  thinking 
how  hard  it  would  be  to  find  in  any  quarter  of 
the  globe  a  place  more  fair  and  fragrant  than 
this  hidden  vale  among  the  Alleghany  Moun 
tains.  The  perfume  of  the  flowers  of  the  forest 
73 


A  WILD  STRAWBERRY 

is  more  sweet  and  subtle  than  the  heavy  scent 
of  tropical  blossoms.  No  lily-field  in  Bermuda 
could  give  a  fragrance  half  so  magical  as  the 
fairy-like  odour  of  these  woodland  slopes,  soft 
carpeted  with  the  green  of  glossy  vines  above 
whose  tiny  leaves,  in  delicate  profusion, 

"  The  slight  Linncea  hangs  its  twin-born  heads." 

Nor  are  there  any  birds  in  Africa,  or  among  the 
Indian  Isles,  more  exquisite  in  colour  than  these 
miniature  warblers,  showing  their  gold  and 
green,  their  orange  and  black,  their  blue  and 
white,  against  the  dark  background  of  the  rho 
dodendron  thicket. 

But  how  seldom  we  put  a  cup  of  pleasure  to 
our  lips  without  a  dash  of  bitters,  a  touch  of 
faultfinding.  My  drop  of  discontent,  that  day, 
was  the  thought  that  the  northern  woodland,  at 
least  in  June,  yielded  no  fruit  to  match  its  beauty 
and  its  fragrance. 

There  is  good  browsing  among  the  leaves  of 
the  wood  and  the  grasses  of  the  meadow,  as 
every  well-instructed  angler  knows.  The  bright 
emerald  tips  that  break  from  the  hemlock  and 
the  balsam  like  verdant  flames  have  a  pleasant 
savour  to  the  tongue.  The  leaves  of  the  sassa 
fras  are  full  of  spice,  and  the  bark  of  the  black- 
birch  twigs  holds  a  fine  cordial.  Crinkle-root  is 
spicy,  but  you  must  partake  of  it  delicately,  or 
74 


A    WILD  STRAWBEEEY 

it  will  bite  your  tongue.  Spearmint  and  pepper 
mint  never  lose  their  charm  for  the  palate  that 
still  remembers  the  delights  of  youth.  Wild 
sorrel  has  an  agreeable,  sour,  shivery  flavour. 
Even  the  tender  stalk  of  a  young  blade  of  grass 
is  a  thing  that  can  be  chewed  by  a  person  of 
childlike  mind  with  much  contentment. 

But,  after  all,  these  are  only  relishes.  They 
whet  the  appetite  more  than  they  appease  it. 
There  should  be  something  to  eat,  in  the  June 
woods,  as  perfect  in  its  kind,  as  satisfying  to  the 
sense  of  taste,  as  the  birds  and  the  flowers  are 
to  the  senses  of  sight  and  hearing  and  smell. 
Blueberries  are  good,  but  they  are  far  away  in 
July.  Blackberries  are  luscious  when  they  are 
fully  ripe,  but  that  will  not  be  until  August. 
Then  the  fishing  will  be  over,  and  the  angler's 
hour  of  need  will  be  past.  The  one  thing  that 
is  lacking  now  beside  this  mountain  stream  is 
some  fruit  more  luscious  and  dainty  than  grows 
in  the  tropics,  to  melt  upon  the  lips  and  fill  the 
mouth  with  pleasure. 

But  that  is  what  these  cold  northern  woods 
will  not  offer.  They  are  too  reserved,  too  lofty, 
too  puritanical  to  make  provision  for  the  grosser 
wants  of  humanity.  They  are  not  friendly  to 
luxury. 

Just  then,  as  I  shifted  my  head  to  find  a 
softer  pillow  of  moss  after  this  philosophic  and 
75 


A   WILD  STRAWBERRY 

immoral  reflection,  Nature  gave  me  her  silent 
answer.  Three  wild  strawberries,  nodding  on 
their  long  stems,  hung  over  my  face.  It  was  an 
invitation  to  taste  and  see  that  they  were  good. 

The  berries  were  not  the  round  and  rosy  ones 
of  the  meadow,  but  the  long,  slender,  dark 
crimson  ones  of  the  forest.  One,  two,  three; 
no  more  on  that  vine  ;  but  each  one  as  it  touched 
my  lips  was  a  drop  of  nectar  and  a  crumb  of 
ambrosia,  a  concentrated  essence  of  all  the  pun 
gent  sweetness  of  the  wildwood,  sapid,  pene 
trating,  and  delicious.  I  tasted  the  odour  of  a 
hundred  blossoms  and  the  green  shimmering  of 
innumerable  leaves  and  the  sparkle  of  sifted 
sunbeams  and  the  breath  of  highland  breezes 
and  the  song  of  many  birds  and  the  murmur  of 
flowing  streams,  —  all  in  a  wild  strawberry. 

Do  you  remember,  in  The  Compleat  Angler, 
a  remark  which  Isaak  Walton  quotes  from  a 
certain  "  Doctor  Boteler  "  about  strawberries  ? 
"  Doubtless"  said  that  wise  old  man,  "  God 
could  have  made  a  better  berry,  but  doubtless 
God  never  did" 

Well,  the  wild  strawberry  is  the  one  that  God 
made. 

I  think  it  would  have  been  pleasant  to  know 
a  man  who  could  sum  up  his  reflections  upon 
the  important  question  of  berries  in  such  a 
76 


"  Nature  gave  me  her  silent  answer." 


A   WILD  STEAWBEEEY 

pithy  saying  as  that  which  Walton  repeats.  His 
tongue  must  have  been  in  close  communication 
with  his  heart.  He  must  have  had  a  fair  sense 
of  that  sprightly  humour  without  which  piety 
itself  is  often  insipid. 

I  have  often  tried  to  find  out  more  about  him, 
and  some  day  I  hope  I  shall.  But  up  to  the 
present,  all  that  the  books  have  told  me  of  this 
obscure  sage  is  that  his  name  was  William 
Butler,  and  that  he  was  an  eminent  physician, 
sometimes  called  "  the  JEsculapius  of  his  age." 
He  was  born  at  Ipswich,  in  1535,  and  educated 
at  Clare  Hall,  Cambridge  ;  in  the  neighbourhood 
of  which  town  he  appears  to  have  spent  the 
most  of  his  life,  in  high  repute  as  a  practitioner 
of  physic.  He  had  the  honour  of  doctoring  King 
James  the  First  after  an  accident  on  the  hunt 
ing  field,  and  must  have  proved  himself  a  plea 
sant  old  fellow,  for  the  king  looked  him  up  at 
Cambridge  the  next  year,  and  spent  an  hour  in 
his  lodgings.  This  wise  physician  also  invented 
a  medicinal  beverage  called  "  Doctor  Butler's 
Ale."  I  do  not  quite  like  the  sound  of  it,  but 
perhaps  it  was  better  than  its  name.  This 
much  is  sure,  at  all  events :  either  it  was  really 
a  harmless  drink,  or  else  the  doctor  must  have 
confined  its  use  entirely  to  his  patients ;  for  he 
lived  to  the  ripe  age  of  eighty-three  years. 

Between  the  time  when  William  Butler  first 
77 


A  WILD  STRAWBEEEY 

needed  the  services  of  a  physician,  in  1535,  and 
the  time  when  he  last  prescribed  for  a  patient, 
in  1618,  there  was  plenty  of  trouble  in  England. 
Bloody  Queen  Mary  sat  on  the  throne;  and 
there  were  all  kinds  of  quarrels  about  religion 
and  politics  ;  and  Catholics  and  Protestants  were 
killing  one  another  in  the  name  of  God.  After 
that  the  red-haired  Elizabeth,  called  the  Virgin 
Queen,  wore  the  crown,  and  waged  triumphant 
war  and  tempestuous  love.  Then  fat  James  of 
Scotland  was  made  king  of  Great  Britain;  and 
Guy  Fawkes  tried  to  blow  him  up  with  gun 
powder,  and  failed ;  and  the  king  tried  to  blow 
out  all  the  pipes  in  England  with  his  Coun 
terblast  Against  Tobacco;  but  he  failed  too. 
Somewhere  about  that  time,  early  in  the  seven 
teenth  century,  a  very  small  event  happened.  A 
new  berry  was  brought  over  from  Virginia,  — 
Fragraria  Virginiana,  —  and  then,  amid  wars 
and  rumours  of  wars,  Doctor  Butler's  happiness 
was  secure.  That  new  berry  was  so  much  richer 
and  sweeter  and  more  generous  than  the  familiar 
Fragraria  vesca  of  Europe,  that  it  attracted 
the  sincere  interest  of  all  persons  of  good  taste. 
It  inaugurated  a  new  era  in  the  history  of  the 
strawberry.  The  long  lost  masterpiece  of  Para 
dise  was  restored  to  its  true  place  in  the  affec 
tions  of  man. 

Is  there  not  a  touch  of  merry  contempt  for  all 
78 


A   WILD  STEAWBEEEY 

the  vain  controversies  and  conflicts  of  humanity 
in  the  grateful  ejaculation  with  which  the  old 
doctor  greeted  that  peaceful,  comforting  gift  of 
Providence  ? 

"  From  this  time  forward,"  he  seems  to  say, 
"  the  fates  cannot  beggar  me,  for  I  have  eaten 
strawberries.  With  every  May  time  that  visits 
this  distracted  island,  the  white  blossoms  with 
hearts  of  gold  will  arrive.  In  every  June  the 
red  drops  of  pleasant  savour  will  hang  among 
the  scalloped  leaves.  The  children  of  this  world 
may  wrangle  and  give  one  another  wounds  that 
even  my  good  ale  cannot  cure.  Nevertheless, 
the  earth  as  God  created  it  is  a  fair  dwelling 
and  full  of  comfort  for  all  who  have  a  quiet  mind 
and  a  thankful  heart.  Doubtless  God  might 
have  made  a  better  world,  but  doubtless  this  is 
the  world  He  made  for  us ;  and  in  it  He  planted 
the  strawberry." 

Fine  old  doctor  !  Brave  philosopher  of  cheer 
fulness  !  The  Virginian  berry  should  have  been 
brought  to  England  sooner,  or  you  should  have 
lived  longer,  at  least  to  a  hundred  years,  so  that 
you  might  have  welcomed  a  score  of  strawberry- 
seasons  with  gratitude  and  an  epigram. 

Since  that  time   a  great  change  has  passed 

over  the  fruit  which  Doctor  Butler  praised  so 

well.     That  product  of  creative  art  which  Divine 

wisdom  did  not  choose  to  surpass,  human  in- 

79 


A   WILD  STEAWBEEEY 

dustry  has  laboured  to  improve.  It  has  grown 
immensely  in  size  and  substance.  The  traveller 
from  America  who  steams  into  Queenstown  har 
bour  in  early  summer  is  presented  (for  a  con 
sideration)  with  a  cabbage-leaf  full  of  pale-hued 
berries,  sweet  and  juicy,  any  one  of  which  would 
outbulk  a  dozen  of  those  that  used  to  grow  in 
Virginia  when  Pocahontas  was  smitten  with  the 
charms  of  Captain  John  Smith.  They  are  su 
perb,  those  light-tinted  Irish  strawberries.  And 
there  are  wonderful  new  varieties  developed  in 
the  gardens  of  New  Jersey  and  Rhode  Island, 
which  compare  with  the  ancient  berries  of  the 
woods  and  meadows  as  Leviathan  with  a  minnow. 
The  huge  crimson  cushions  hang  among  the 
plants  so  thick  that  they  seem  like  bunches  of 
fruit  with  a  few  leaves  attached  for  ornament. 
You  can  satisfy  your  hunger  in  such  a  berry- 
patch  in  ten  minutes,  while  out  in  the  field  you 
must  pick  for  half  an  hour,  and  in  the  forest 
thrice  as  long,  before  you  can  fill  a  small  tin 
cup. 

Yet,  after  all,  it  is  questionable  whether  men 
have  really  bettered  God's  chef  d'ceuvre  in  the 
berry  line.  They  have  enlarged  it  and  made  it 
more  plentiful  and  more  certain  in  its  harvest. 
But  sweeter,  more  fragrant,  more  poignant  in 
its  flavour?  No.  The  wild  berry  still  stands 
first  in  its  subtle  gusto. 

80 


A   WILD  STRAWBERRY 

Size  is  not  the  measure  of  excellence.  Per 
fection  lies  in  quality,  not  in  quantity.  Con 
centration  enhances  pleasure,  gives  it  a  point  so 
that  it  goes  deeper. 

Is  not  a  ten-inch  trout  better  than  a  ten-foot 
sturgeon  ?  I  would  rather  read  a  tiny  essay  by 
Charles  Lamb  than  a  five-hundred  page  libel 
on  life  by  a  modern  British  novelist  who  shall 
be  nameless.  Flavour  is  the  priceless  quality. 
Style  is  the  thing  that  counts  and  is  remem 
bered,  in  literature,  in  art,  and  in  berries. 

No  Jbcunda,  nor  Triumph,  nor  Victoria,  nor 
any  other  high-titled  fruit  that  ever  took  the 
first  prize  at  an  agricultural  fair,  is  half  so  deli 
cate  and  satisfying  as  the  wild  strawberry  that 
dropped  into  my  mouth,  under  the  hemlock  tree, 
beside  the  Swiftwater. 

A  touch  of  surprise  is  essential  to  perfect 
sweetness. 

To  get  what  you  have  been  wishing  for  is 
pleasant ;  but  to  get  what  you  have  not  been 
sure  of,  makes  the  pleasure  tingle.  A  new  door 
of  happiness  is  opened  when  you  go  out  to  hunt 
for  something  and  discover  it  with  your  own 
eyes.  But  there  is  an  experience  even  better 
than  that.  When  you  have  stupidly  forgotten 
(or  despondently  forgone)  to  look  about  you 
for  the  unclaimed  treasures  and  unearned 
blessings  which  are  scattered  along  the  by-ways 
81 


A   WILD  STEAWBERBT 

of  life,  then,  sometimes  by  a  special  mercy,  a 
small  sample  of  them  is  quietly  laid  before  you 
so  that  you  cannot  help  seeing  it,  and  it  brings 
you  back,  mighty  sweetly,  to  a  sense  of  the  joy 
ful  possibilities  of  living. 

How  full  of  enjoyment  is  the  search  after 
wild  things,  —  wild  birds,  wild  flowers,  wild 
honey,  wild  berries !  There  was  a  country  club 
on  Storm  King  Mountain,  above  the  Hudson 
River,  where  they  used  to  celebrate  a  festival 
of  flowers  every  spring.  Men  and  women  who 
had  conservatories  of  their  own,  full  of  rare 
plants  and  costly  orchids,  came  together  to 
admire  the  gathered  blossoms  of  the  woodlands 
and  meadows.  But  the  people  who  had  the  Lest 
of  the  entertainment  were  the  boys  and  girls 
who  wandered  through  the  thickets  and  down  the 
brooks,  pushed  their  way  into  the  tangled  copses 
and  crept  venturesomely  across  the  swamps,  to 
look  for  the  flowers.  Some  of  the  seekers  may 
have  had  a  few  gray  hairs ;  but  for  that  day  at 
least  they  were  all  boys  and  girls.  Nature  was 
as  young  as  ever,  and  they  were  all  her  children. 
Hand  touched  hand  without  a  glove.  The  hid 
den  blossoms  of  friendship  unfolded.  Laughter 
and  merry  shouts  and  snatches  of  half-forgot 
ten  song  rose  to  the  lips.  Gay  adventure  spar 
kled  in  the  air.  School  was  out  and  nobody 
listened  for  the  bell.  It  was  just  a  day  to  live, 
82 


A   WILD  STEAWBEEEY 

and  be  natural,  and  take  no  thought  for  the 
morrow. 

There  is  great  luck  in  this  affair  of  looking 
for  flowers.  I  do  not  see  how  any  one  who  is 
prejudiced  against  games  of  chance  can  consist 
ently  undertake  it. 

For  my  own  part,  I  approve  of  garden  flowers 
because  they  are  so  orderly  and  so  certain ;  but 
wild  flowers  I  love,  just  because  there  is  so 
much  chance  about  them.  Nature  is  all  in 
favour  of  certainty  in  great  laws  and  of  uncer 
tainty  in  small  events.  You  cannot  appoint  the 
day  and  the  place  for  her  flower-shows.  If  you 
happen  to  drop  in  at  the  right  moment  she  will 
give  you  a  free  admission.  But  even  then  it 
seems  as  if  the  table  of  beauty  had  been  spread 
for  the  joy  of  a  higher  visitor,  and  in  obedience 
to  secret  orders  which  you  have  not  heard. 

Have  you  ever  found  the  fringed  gentian  ? 

"Just  before  the  snows, 
There  came  a  purple  creature 

That  lavished  all  the  hill ; 
And  summer  hid  her  forehead, 

And  mockery  was  still. 

The  frosts  were  her  condition : 

The  Tyrian  would  not  come 
Until  the  North  evoked  her,  — 

*  Creator,  shall  I  bloom  ?  ' " 

There  are   strange  freaks  of  fortune  in  the 
finding  of  wild  flowers,  and  curious  coincidences 
83 


A   WILD  STEAWBEREY 

which  make  us  feel  as  if  some  one  were  playing 
friendly  tricks  on  us.  I  remember  reading, 
one  evening  in  May,  a  passage  in  a  good  book 
called  The  Procession  of  the  Flowers,  in  which 
Colonel  Higginson  describes  the  singular  luck 
that  a  friend  of  his  enjoyed,  year  after  year,  in 
finding  the  rare  blossoms  of  the  double  rue- 
anemone.  It  seems  that  this  man  needed  only 
to  take  a  walk  in  the  suburbs  of  any  town,  and 
he  would  come  upon  a  bed  of  these  flowers, 
without  effort  or  design.  I  envied  him  his 
good  fortune,  for  I  had  never  discovered  even 
one  of  them.  But  the  next  morning,  as  I 
strolled  out  to  fish  the  Swiftwater,  down  below 
Billy  Lerns's  spring-house  I  found  a  green  bank 
in  the  shadow  of  the  wood  all  bespangled  with 
tiny,  trembling,  twofold  stars,  —  double  rue- 
anemones,  for  luck  !  It  was  a  favourable  omen, 
and  that  day  I  came  home  with  a  creel  full  of 
trout. 

The  theory  that  Adam  lived  out  in  the  woods 
for  some  time  before  he  was  put  into  the  garden 
of  Eden  "  to  dress  it  and  to  keep  it "  has  an 
air  of  probability.  How  else  shall  we  account 
for  the  arboreal  instincts  that  cling  to  his  pos 
terity? 

There  is  a  wilding  strain  in  our  blood  that  all 
the  civilization  in  the  world  will  not  eradicate. 
I  never  knew  a  real  boy  —  or,  for  that  matter, 
84 


A   WILD  STEAWBEEEY 

a  girl  worth  knowing  —  who  would  not  rather 
climb  a  tree,  any  day,  than  walk  up  a  golden 
stairway. 

It  is  a  touch  of  this  instinct,  I  suppose,  that 
makes  it  more  delightful  to  fish  in  the  most 
insignificant  of  free  streams  than  in  a  carefully 
stocked  and  preserved  pond,  where  the  fish  are 
brought  up  by  hand  and  fed  on  minced  liver. 
Such  elaborate  precautions  to  ensure  good  luck 
extract  all  the  spice  from  the  sport  of  angling. 
Casting  the  fly  in  such  a  pond,  if  you  hooked  a 
fish,  you  might  expect  to  hear  the  keeper  say, 
"  Ah,  that  is  Charles,  we  will  play  him  and  put 
him  back,  if  you  please,  sir;  for  the  master  is 
very  fond  of  him,"  —  or,  "  Now  you  have  got  hold 
of  Edward ;  let  us  land  him  and  keep  him ;  he 
is  three  years  old  this  month,  and  just  ready  to 
be  eaten."  It  would  seem  like  taking  trout  out 
of  cold  storage. 

Who  could  find  any  pleasure  in  angling  for 
the  tame  carp  in  the  fish-pool  of  Fontainebleau  ? 
They  gather  at  the  marble  steps,  those  venera 
ble,  courtly  fish,  to  receive  their  rations;  and 
there  are  veterans  among  them,  in  ancient 
livery,  with  fringes  of  green  moss  on  their 
shoulders,  who  could  tell  you  pretty  tales  of 
being  fed  by  the  white  hands  of  maids  of  hon 
our,  or  even  of  nibbling  their  crumbs  of  bread 
from  the  jewelled  fingers  of  a  princess. 
85 


A   WILD  STEAWBEEET 

There  is  no  sport  in  bringing  pets  to  the 
table.  It  may  be  necessary  sometimes ;  but  the 
true  sportsman  would  always  prefer  to  leave 
the  unpleasant  task  of  execution  to  menial 
hands,  while  he  goes  out  into  the  wild  country 
to  capture  his  game  by  his  own  skill,  —  if  he  has 
good  luck.  I  would  rather  run  some  risk  in  this 
enterprise  (even  as  the  young  Tobias  did,  when 
the  voracious  pike  sprang  at  him  from  the  waters 
of  the  Tigris,  and  would  have  devoured  him  but 
for  the  friendly  instruction  of  the  piscatory 
Angel,  who  taught  Tobias  how  to  land  the  mon 
ster),  —  I  would  far  rather  take  any  number  of 
chances  in  my  sport  than  have  it  domesticated  to 
the  point  of  dulness. 

The  trim  plantations  of  trees  which  are  called 
"forests"  in  certain  parts  of  Europe  —  scien 
tifically  pruned  and  tended,  counted  every  year 
by  uniformed  foresters,  and  defended  against 
all  possible  depredations  —  are  admirable  and 
useful  in  their  way ;  but  they  lack  the  mystic 
enchantment  of  the  fragments  of  native  wood 
land  which  linger  among  the  Adirondacks  and 
the  White  Mountains,  or  the  vast,  shaggy,  syl 
van  wildernesses  which  hide  the  lakes  and  rivers 
of  Canada.  These  Laurentian  Hills  lie  in  No 
Man's  Land.  Here  you  do  not  need  to  keep 
to  the  path,  for  there  is  none.  You  may  make 
your  own  trail,  whithersoever  fancy  leads  you ; 
86 


A   WILD  STRAWBERRY 

and  at  night  you  may  pitch  your  tent  under  any 
tree  that  looks  friendly  and  firm. 

Here,  if  anywhere,  you  shall  find  Dryads, 
and  Naiads,  and  Oreads.  And  if  you  chance 
to  see  one,  by  moonlight,  combing  her  long  hair 
beside  the  glimmering  waterfall,  or  slipping 
silently,  with  gleaming  shoulders,  through  the 
grove  of  silver  birches,  you  may  call  her  by  the 
name  that  pleases  you  best.  She  is  all  your 
own  discovery.  There  is  no  social  directory  in 
the  wilderness. 

One  side  of  our  nature,  no  doubt,  finds  its 
satisfaction  in  the  regular,  the  proper,  the  con 
ventional.  But  there  is  another  side  of  our 
nature,  underneath,  that  takes  delight  in  the 
strange,  the  free,  the  spontaneous.  We  like  to 
discover  what  we  call  a  law  of  Nature,  and 
make  our  calculations  about  it,  and  harness  the 
force  which  lies  behind  it  for  our  own  purposes. 
But  we  taste  a  different  kind  of  joy  when  an 
event  occurs  which  nobody  has  foreseen  or 
counted  upon.  It  seems  like  an  evidence  that 
there  is  something  in  the  world  which  is  alive 
and  mysterious  and  untrammelled. 

The  weather-prophet  tells  us  of  an  approach 
ing  storm.  It  comes  according  to  the  pro 
gramme.  We  admire  the  accuracy  of  the 
prediction,  and  congratulate  ourselves  that  we 
have  such  a  good  meteorological  service.  But 
87 


A   WILD  STEAWBEEET 

when,  perchance,  a  bright,  crystalline  piece  of 
weather  arrives  instead  of  the  foretold  tempest, 
do  we  not  feel  a  secret  sense  of  pleasure  which 
goes  beyond  our  mere  comfort  in  the  sunshine  ? 
The  whole  affair  is  not  as  easy  as  a  sum  in  sim 
ple  addition,  after  all,  —  at  least  not  with  our 
present  knowledge.  It  is  a  good  joke  on  the 
Weather  Bureau.  "  Aha,  Old  Probabilities  !  " 
we  say,  "  you  don't  know  it  all  yet ;  there  are 
still  some  chances  to  be  taken  !  " 

Some  day,  I  suppose,  all  things  in  the  heavens 
above,  and  in  the  earth  beneath,  and  in  the 
hearts  of  the  men  and  women  who  dwell  between, 
will  be  investigated  and  explained.  We  shall 
live  a  perfectly  ordered  life,  with  no  accidents, 
happy  or  unhappy.  Everybody  will  act  accord 
ing  to  rule,  and  there  will  be  no  dotted  lines 
on  the  map  of  human  existence,  no  regions 
marked  "  unexplored."  Perhaps  that  golden 
age  of  the  machine  will  come,  but  you  and  I 
will  hardly  live  to  see  it.  And  if  that  seems  to 
you  a  matter  for  tears,  you  must  do  your  own 
weeping,  for  I  cannot  find  it  in  my  heart  to  add 
a  single  drop  of  regret. 

The  results  of  education  and  social  discipline 
in  humanity  are  fine.  It  is  a  good  thing  that 
we  can  count  upon  them.  But  at  the  same  time 
let  us  rejoice  in  the  play  of  native  traits  and 
individual  vagaries.  Cultivated  manners  are  ad« 
88 


A   WILD  STEAWBEEEY 

mirable,  yet  there  is  a  sudden  touch  of  inborn 
grace  and  courtesy  that  goes  beyond  them  all. 
No  array  of  accomplishments  can  rival  the 
charm  of  an  unsuspected  gift  of  nature,  brought 
suddenly  to  light.  I  once  heard  a  peasant  girl 
singing  down  the  Traunthal,  and  the  echo  of 
her  song  outlives,  in  the  hearing  of  my  heart, 
all  memories  of  the  grand  opera. 

The  harvest  of  the  gardens  and  the  orchards, 
the  result  of  prudent  planting  and  patient  cul 
tivation,  is  full  of  satisfaction.  We  anticipate 
it  in  due  season,  and  when  it  comes  we  fill  our 
mouths  and  are  grateful.  But  pray,  kind  Provi 
dence,  let  me  slip  over  the  fence  out  of  the 
garden  now  and  then,  to  shake  a  nut-tree  that 
grows  untended  in  the  wood.  Give  me  liberty 
to  put  off  my  black  coat  for  a  day,  and  go 
a-fishing  on  a  free  stream,  and  find  by  chance 
a  wild  strawberry. 


89 


V 

LOVERS  AND   LANDSCAPE 


"  He  insisted  that  the  love  that  was  of  real  value  in  the  world  wasn't  in 
teresting,  and  that  the  love  that  was  interesting  was  n't  always  admir 
able.  Love  that  happened  to  a  person  like  the  measles  or  fits,  and  was 
really  of  no  particular  credit  to  itself  or  its  victims,  was  the  sort  that 
got  into  the  books  and  was  made  much  of;  whereas  the  kind  that  was 
attained  by  the  endeavour  of  true  souls,  and  that  had  wear  in  it,  and 
that  made  things  go  right  instead  of  tangling  them  up,  was  too  much 
like  duty  to  make  satisfactory  reading  for  people  of  sentiment.'''1 '  — 
E.  S.  MARTIN:  My  Cousin  Anthony. 


LOVERS   AND   LANDSCAPE 

THE  first  day  of  spring  is  one  thing,  and  the 
first  spring  day  is  another.  The  difference  be 
tween  them  is  sometimes  as  great  as  a  month. 

The  first  day  of  spring  is  due  to  arrive,  if  the 
calendar  does  not  break  down,  about  the  twenty- 
first  of  March,  when  the  earth  turns  the  corner 
of  Sun  Alley  and  starts  for  Summer  Street. 
But  the  first  spring  day  is  not  on  the  time-table 
at  all.  It  comes  when  it  is  ready,  and  in  the 
latitude  of  New  York  this  is  usually  not  till  after 
All  Fools'  Day. 

About  this  time,  — 

"  When  chinks  in  April's  windy  dome 

Let  through  a  day  of  June, 
And  foot  and  thought  incline  to  roam, 
And  every  sound 's  a  tune,"  — 

it  is  the  habit  of  the  angler  who  lives  in  town  to 
prepare  for  the  labours  of  the  approaching  sea 
son  by  longer  walks  or  bicycle-rides  in  the  parks, 
or  along  the  riverside,  or  in  the  somewhat  de 
moralized  Edens  of  the  suburbs.  In  the  course 
of  these  vernal  peregrinations  and  circumrota- 
93 


LOVEES  AND  LANDSCAPE 

tions,  I  observe  that  lovers  of  various  kinds 
begin  to  occupy  a  notable  place  in  the  landscape. 

The  burnished  dove  puts  a  livelier  iris  around 
his  neck,  and  practises  fantastic  bows  and  amour- 
ous  quicksteps  along  the  verandah  of  the  pigeon- 
house  and  on  every  convenient  roof.  The  young 
male  of  the  human  species,  less  gifted  in  the 
matter  of  rainbows,  does  his  best  with  a  gay 
cravat,  and  turns  the  thoughts  which  circulate 
above  it  towards  the  securing  or  propitiating  of 
a  best  girl. 

The  objects  of  these  more  or  less  brilliant 
attentions,  doves  and  girls,  show  a  becoming 
reciprocity,  and  act  in  a  way  which  leads  us 
to  infer  (so  far  as  inferences  hold  good  in  the 
mysterious  region  of  female  conduct)  that  they 
are  not  seriously  displeased.  To  a  rightly  tem 
pered  mind,  pleasure  is  a  pleasant  sight.  And 
the  philosophic  observer  who  could  look  upon 
this  spring  spectacle  of  the  lovers  with  any  but 
friendly  feelings  would  be  indeed  what  the  great 
Dr.  Samuel  Johnson  called  "  a  person  not  to  be 
envied." 

Far  be  it  from  me  to  fall  into  such  a  desic 
cated  and  supercilious  mood.  My  small  olive- 
branch  of  fancy  will  be  withered,  in  truth,  and 
ready  to  drop  budless  from  the  tree,  when  I 
cease  to  feel  a  mild  delight  in  the  billings  and 
cooings  of  the  little  birds  that  separate  from  the 
94 


LOVERS  AND  LANDSCAPE 

flocks  to  fly  together  in  pairs,  or  in  the  unin- 
instructive  but  mutually  satisfactory  converse 
which  Strephon  holds  with  Chloe  while  they 
dally  along  the  primrose  path. 

I  am  glad  that  even  the  stony  and  tumultuous 
city  affords  some  opportunities  for  these  ami 
able  observations.  In  the  month  of  April  there 
is  hardly  a  clump  of  shrubbery  in  the  Central 
Park  which  will  not  serve  as  a  trysting-place 
for  yellow  warblers  and  catbirds  just  home  from 
their  southern  tours.  At  the  same  time,  you 
shall  see  many  a  bench,  designed  for  the  accom 
modation  of  six  persons,  occupied  at  the  sunset 
hour  by  only  two,  and  apparently  so  much  too 
small  for  them  that  they  cannot  avoid  a  little 
crowding. 

These  are  infallible  signs.  Taken  in  conjunc 
tion  with  the  eruption  of  tops  and  marbles 
among  the  small  boys,  and  the  purchase  of  fish 
ing-tackle  and  golf -clubs  by  the  old  boys,  they 
certify  us  that  the  vernal  equinox  has  arrived, 
not  only  in  the  celestial  regions,  but  also  in  the 
heart  of  man. 

I  have  been  reflecting  of  late  upon  the  rela 
tion  of  lovers  to  the  landscape,  and  questioning 
whether  art  has  given  it  quite  the  same  place  as 
that  which  belongs  to  it  in  nature.  In  fiction, 
for  example,  and  in  the  drama,  and  in  music,  I 
95 


LOVERS  AND  LANDSCAPE 

have  some  vague  misgivings  that  romantic  love 
has  come  to  hold  a  more  prominent  and  a  more 
permanent  position  than  it  fills  in  real  life. 

This  is  dangerous  ground  to  venture  upon, 
even  in  the  most  modest  and  deprecatory  way. 
The  man  who  expresses  an  opinion,  or  even  a 
doubt,  on  this  subject,  contrary  to  the  ruling 
traditions,  will  have  a  swarm  of  angry  critics 
buzzing  about  him.  He  will  be  called  a  heretic, 
a  heathen,  a  cold-blooded  freak  of  nature.  As 
for  the  woman  who  hesitates  to  subscribe  all  the 
thirty-nine  articles  of  romantic  love,  if  such  a 
one  dares  to  put  her  reluctance  into  words,  she 
is  certain  to  be  accused  either  of  unwomanly  am 
bition  or  of  feminine  disappointment. 

Let  us  make  haste,  then,  to  get  back  for  safety 
to  the  ornithological  aspect  of  the  subject.  Here 
there  can  be  no  penalties  for  heresy.  And  here 
I  make  bold  to  avow  my  conviction  that  the 
pairing  season  is  not  the  only  point  of  interest 
in  the  life  of  the  birds ;  nor  is  the  instinct  by 
which  they  mate  altogether  and  beyond  com 
parison  the  noblest  passion  that  stirs  their  fea 
thered  breasts. 

'T  is  true,  the  time  of  mating  is  their  prettiest 
season  ;  but  it  is  very  short.  How  little  we 
should  know  of  the  drama  of  their  airy  life  if 
we  had  eyes  only  for  this  brief  scene !  Their 
finest  qualities  come  out  in  the  patient  cares 
96 


LOVERS  AND  LANDSCAPE 

that  protect  the  young  in  the  nest,  in  the  varied 
struggles  for  existence  through  the  changing 
year,  and  in  the  incredible  heroisms  of  the  an 
nual  migrations.  Herein  is  a  parable. 

It  may  be  observed  further,  without  fear  of  re 
buke,  that  the  behaviour  of  the  different  kinds  of 
birds  during  the  prevalence  of  romantic  love  is 
not  always  equally  above  reproach.  The  court 
ship  of  English  sparrows  —  blustering,  noisy, 
vulgar  —  is  a  sight  to  offend  the  taste  of  every 
gentle  on-looker.  Some  birds  reiterate  and  voci 
ferate  their  love-songs  in  a  fashion  that  displays 
their  inconsiderateness  as  well  as  their  ignorance 
of  music.  This  trait  is  most  marked  in  domestic 
fowls.  There  was  a  guinea-cock,  once,  that 
chose  to  do  his  wooing  close  under  the  window 
of  a  farm-house  where  I  was  lodged.  He  had 
no  regard  for  my  hours  of  sleep  or  meditation. 
His  amatory  click-clack  prevented  the  morning 
and  wrecked  the  tranquillity  of  the  evening.  It 
was  odious,  brutal,  —  worse,  it  was  absolutely 
thoughtless.  Herein  is  another  parable. 

Let  us  admit  cheerfully  that  lovers  have  a 
place  in  the  landscape  and  lend  a  charm  to  it. 
This  does  not  mean  that  they  are  to  take  up  all 
the  room  there  is.  Suppose,  for  example,  that 
a  pair  of  them,  on  Goat  Island,  put  themselves 
in  such  a  position  as  to  completely  block  out 
your  view  of  Niagara.  You  cannot  regard  them 
97 


LOVERS  AND  LANDSCAPE 

with  gratitude.  They  even  become  a  little  te 
dious.  Or  suppose  that  you  are  visiting  at  a 
country-house,  and  you  find  that  you  must  not 
enjoy  the  moonlight  on  the  verandah  because 
Augustus  and  Amanda  are  murmuring  in  one 
corner,  and  that  you  must  not  go  into  the  gar 
den  because  Louis  and  Lizzie  are  there,  and 
that  you  cannot  have  a  sail  on  the  lake  because 
Richard  and  Rebecca  have  taken  the  boat. 

Of  course,  unless  you  happen  to  be  a  selfish 
old  curmudgeon,  you  rejoice,  by  sympathy,  in 
the  happiness  of  these  estimable  young  people. 
But  you  fail  to  see  why  it  should  cover  so  much 
ground. 

Why  should  they  not  pool  their  interests,  and 
all  go  out  in  the  boat,  or  all  walk  in  the  garden, 
or  all  sit  on  the  verandah  ?  Then  there  would 
be  room  for  somebody  else  about  the  place. 

In  old  times  you  could  rely  upon  lovers  for 
retirement.  But  nowadays  their  role  seems 
to  be  a  bold  ostentation  of  their  condition. 
They  rely  upon  other  people  to  do  the  timid, 
shrinking  part.  Society,  in  America,  is  ar 
ranged  principally  for  their  convenience  ;  and 
whatever  portion  of  the  landscape  strikes  their 
fancy,  they  preempt  and  occupy.  All  this  goes 
upon  the  presumption  that  romantic  love  is 
really  the  only  important  interest  in  life. 

This  train  of  thought  was  illuminated,  the 
98 


LOVERS  AND  LANDSCAPE 

other  night,  by  an  incident  which  befell  me  at 
a  party.  It  was  an  assembly  of  men,  drawn  to 
gether  by  their  common  devotion  to  the  sport 
of  canoeing.  There  were  only  three  or  four  of 
the  gentler  sex  present  (as  honorary  members), 
and  only  one  of  whom  it  could  be  suspected  that 
she  was  at  that  time  a  victim  or  an  object  of  the 
tender  passion.  In  the  course  of  the  evening, 
by  way  of  diversion  to  our  disputations  on  keels 
and  centreboards,  canvas  and  birch-bark,  cedar- 
wood  and  bass-wood,  paddles  and  steering-gear, 
a  fine  young  Apollo,  with  a  big,  manly  voice, 
sang  us  a  few  songs.  But  he  did  not  chant  the 
joys  of  weathering  a  sudden  squall,  or  running  a 
rapid  feather-white  with  foam,  or  floating  down 
a  long,  quiet,  elm-bowered  river.  Not  at  all. 
His  songs  were  full  of  sighs  and  yearnings,  lan 
guid  lips  and  sheep's-eyes.  His  powerful  voice 
informed  us  that  crowns  of  thorns  seemed  like 
garlands  of  roses,  and  kisses  were  as  sweet  as 
samples  of  heaven,  and  various  other  curious 
sensations  were  experienced  ;  and  at  the  end  of 
every  stanza  the  reason  was  stated,  in  tones  of 

thunder  — 

"  Because  I  love  you,  dear." 

Even  if  true,  it  seemed  inappropriate.     How 
foolish  the  average  audience  in  a  drawing-room 
looks  while  it  is  listening  to  passionate  love-dit 
ties  !     And  yet  I  suppose  the  singer  chose  these 
99 


LOVEES  AND  LANDSCAPE 

songs,  not  from  any  malice  aforethought,  but 
simply  because  songs  of  this  kind  are  so  abun 
dant  that  it  is  next  to  impossible  to  find  any 
thing  else  in  the  shops. 

In  regard  to  novels,  the  situation  is  almost  as 
discouraging.  Ten  love-stories  are  printed  to 
one  of  any  other  kind.  We  have  a  standing 
invitation  to  consider  the  tribulations  and  diffi 
culties  of  some  young  man  or  young  woman  in 
finding  a  mate.  It  must  be  admitted  that  the 
subject  has  its  capabilities  of  interest.  Nature 
has  her  uses  for  the  lover,  and  she  gives  him  an 
excellent  part  to  play  in  the  drama  of  life.  But 
is  this  tantamount  to  saying  that  his  interest  is 
perennial  and  all-absorbing,  and  that  his  role  on 
the  stage  is  the  only  one  that  is  significant  and 
noteworthy  ? 

Life  is  much  too  large  to  be  expressed  in  the 
terms  of  a  single  passion.  Friendship,  patriot 
ism,  parental  tenderness,  filial  devotion,  the  ar 
dour  of  adventure,  the  thirst  for  knowledge,  the 
ecstasy  of  religion,  — these  all  have  their  dwell 
ing  in  the  heart  of  man.  They  mould  character. 
They  control  conduct.  They  are  stars  of  des 
tiny  shining  in  the  inner  firmament.  And  if  art 
would  truly  hold  the  mirror  up  to  nature,  it  must 
reflect  these  greater  and  lesser  lights  that  rule 
the  day  and  the  night. 

How  many  of  the  plays  that  divert  and  misin- 
100 


LOVERS  AND  LANDSCAPE 

form  the  modern  theatre-goer  turn  on  the  pivot 
of  a  love-affair,  not  always  pure,  but  generally 
simple  !  And  how  many  of  those  that  are  im 
ported  from  France  proceed  upon  the  theory 
that  the  Seventh  is  the  only  Commandment, 
and  that  the  principal  attraction  of  life  lies  in 
the  opportunity  of  breaking  it !  The  matinee- 
girl  is  not  likely  to  have  a  very  luminous  or 
truthful  idea  of  existence  floating  around  in  her 
pretty  little  head. 

But,  after  all,  the  great  plays,  those  that  take 
the  deepest  hold  upon  the  heart,  like  Hamlet 
and  King  Lear,  Macbeth  and  Othello,  are  not 
love-plays.  And  the  most  charming  comedies, 
like  The  Winter's  Tale,  and  The  jRivals,  and 
Hip  Van  Winkle,  are  chiefly  memorable  for 
other  things  than  love-scenes. 

Even  in  novels,  love  shows  at  its  best  when  it 
does  not  absorb  the  whole  plot.  Lorna  Doone 
is  a  lovers'  story,  but  there  is  a  blessed  mini 
mum  of  spooning  in  it,  and  always  enough  o't 
working  and  fighting  to  keep  the  air  clear  and 
fresh.  The  Heart  of  Midlothian,  and  Hypa- 
tia,  and  JKomola,  and  The  Cloister  and  the 
Hearth,  and  John  Inglesant,  and  The  Three 
Musketeers,  and  Notre  Dame,  and  Peace  and 
War,  and  Quo  Vadis,  —  these  are  great  novels 
because  they  are  much  more  than  tales  of  roman 
tic  love.  As  for  Henry  Esmond,  (which  seems 
101 


LOVEES  AND  LANDSCAPE 

to  me  the  best  of  all,)  certainly  "  love  at  first 
sight "  does  not  play  the  finest  role  in  that  book. 

There  are  good  stories  of  our  own  day  —  pa 
thetic,  humourous,  entertaining,  powerful  —  in 
which  the  element  of  romantic  love  is  altogether 
subordinate,  or  even  imperceptible.  The  Rise 
of  Silas  Lapham  does  not  owe  its  deep  interest 
to  the  engagement  of  the  very  charming  young 
people  who  enliven  it.  Madame,  Delphine  and 
Ole  '  Sir  acted  are  perfect  stories  of  their  kind. 
I  would  not  barter  The  Jungle  Books  for  a  hun 
dred  of  The  Brushwood  Boy. 

The  truth  is  that  love,  considered  merely  as 
the  preference  of  one  person  for  another  of  the 
opposite  sex,  is  not  "  the  greatest  thing  in  the 
world."  It  becomes  great  only  when  it  leads  on, 
as  it  often  does,  to  heroism  and  self-sacrifice  and 
fidelity.  Its  chief  value  for  art  (the  interpreter) 
lies  not  in  itself,  but  in  its  quickening  relation 
to  the  other  elements  of  life.  It  must  be  seen 
and  shown  in  its  due  proportion,  and  in  harmony 
with  the  broader  landscape. 

Do  you  believe  that  in  all  the  world  there  is 
only  one  woman  specially  created  for  each  man, 
and  that  the  order  of  the  universe  will  be  hope 
lessly  askew  unless  these  two  needles  find  each 
other  in  the  haystack  ?  You  believe  it  for  your 
self,  perhaps;  but  do  you  believe  it  for  Tom 
Johnson?  You  remember  what  a  terrific  dis- 
102 


LOVEES  AND  LANDSCAPE 

turbance  he  made  in  the  summer  of  1895,  at 
Bar  Harbor,  about  Ellinor  Brown.  You  saw 
them  together  (occasionally)  three  years  after  at 
Lenox.  Are  you  honestly  of  the  opinion  that  if 
Tom  had  not  married  Ellinor,  these  two  young 
lives  would  have  been  a  total  wreck  ? 

Adam  Smith,  in  his  book  on  Tlie  Moral  Sen 
timent  s^  goes  so  far  as  to  say  that  "  love  is  not 
interesting  to  the  observer  because  it  is  an  affec 
tion  of  the  imagination,  into  which  it  is  difficult 
for  a  third  party  to  enter."  Something  of  the 
same  kind  occurred  to  me  in  regard  to  Tom  and 
Ellinor.  Yet  I  would  not  have  presumed  to 
suggest  this  thought  to  either  of  them.  Nor 
would  I  have  quoted  in  their  hearing  the  mel 
ancholy  and  frigid  prediction  of  Ralph  Waldo 
Emerson,  to  the  effect  that  they  would  some 
day  discover  "  that  all  which  at  first  drew  them 
together  —  those  once  sacred  features,  that  ma 
gical  play  of  charm  —  was  deciduous. 

Deciduous,  indeed  ?  Cold,  unpleasant,  bo 
tanical  word  !  Rather  would  I  prognosticate  for 
the  lovers  something  perennial, 

"  A  sober  certainty  of  waking-  bliss," 

to  survive  the  evanescence  of  love's  young 
dream.  Ellinor  should  turn  out  to  be  a  woman 
like  the  Lady  Elizabeth  Hastings,  of  whom 
Richard  Steele  wrote  that  "  to  love  her  was  a 
103 


LOVERS  AND  LANDSCAPE 

Jiberal  education."  Tom  should  prove  that  he 
had  in  him  the  lasting  stuff  of  a  true  man  and 
a  hero.  Then  it  would  make  little  difference 
whether  their  conjunction  had  been  eternally 
prescribed  in  the  book  of  fate  or  not.  It  would 
be  evidently  a  fit  match,  made  on  earth  and 
illustrative  of  heaven. 

But  even  in  the  making  of  such  a  match  as 
this,  the  various  stages  of  attraction,  infatua 
tion,  and  appropriation  should  not  be  displayed 
too  prominently  before  the  world,  nor  treated  as 
events  of  overwhelming  importance  and  endur 
ing  moment.  I  would  not  counsel  Tom  and 
Ellinor,  in  the  midsummer  of  their  engagement, 
to  have  their  photographs  taken  together  in 
affectionate  attitudes. 

The  pictures  of  an  imaginary  kind  which 
deal  with  the  subject  of  romantic  love  are,  al 
most  without  exception,  fatuous  and  futile.  The 
inanely  amatory,  with  their  languishing  eyes, 
weary  us.  The  endlessly  osculatory,  with  their 
protracted  salutations,  are  sickening.  Even  when 
an  air  of  sentimental  propriety  is  thrown  about 
them  by  some  such  title  as  "  Wedded  "  or  "  The 
Honeymoon,"  they  fatigue  us.  For  the  most 
part,  they  remind  me  of  the  remark  which  the 
Commodore  made  upon  a  certain  painting  of 
Jupiter  and  lo  which  hangs  in  the  writing-room 
of  the  Contrary  Club. 

104 


"  Falling  in  love  in  the  good  old-fashioned  way." 


LOVERS  AND  LANDSCAPE 

"Sir,"  said  that  gently  piercing  critic,  "that 
picture  is  equally  unsatisfactory  to  the  artist,  to 
the  moralist,  and  to  the  voluptuary." 

Nevertheless,  having  made  a  clean  breast  of 
my  misgivings  and  reservations  on  the  subject 
of  lovers  and  landscape,  I  will  now  confess  that 
the  whole  of  my  doubts  do  not  weigh  much 
against  my  unreasoned  faith  in  romantic  love. 
At  heart  I  am  no  infidel,  but  a  most  obstinate 
believer  and  devotee.  My  seasons  of  skepticism 
are  transient.  They  are  connected  with  a  tor 
pid  liver  and  aggravated  by  confinement  to  a 
sedentary  life  and  enforced  abstinence  from 
angling.  Out-of-doors,  I  return  to  a  saner  and 
happier  frame  of  mind. 

As  my  wheel  rolls  along  the  Kiverside  Drive 
in  the  golden  glow  of  the  sunset,  I  rejoice  that 
the  episode  of  Charles  Henry  and  Matilda  Jane 
has  not  been  omitted  from  the  view.  This  vast 
and  populous  city,  with  all  its  passing  show  of 
life,  would  be  little  better  than  a  waste,  howl 
ing  wilderness  if  we  could  not  catch  a  glimpse, 
now  and  then,  of  young  people  falling  in  love  in 
the  good  old-fashioned  way.  Even  on  a  trout- 
stream,  I  have  seen  nothing  prettier  than  the 
sight  upon  which  I  once  came  suddenly  as  I  was 
fishing  down  the  Neversink. 

A  boy  was  kneeling  beside  the  brook,  and  a 
105 


LOVERS  AND  LANDSCAPE 

girl  was  giving  him  a  drink  of  water  out  of  her 
rosy  hands.  They  stared  with  wonder  and  com 
passion  at  the  wet  and  solitary  angler,  wading 
down  the  stream,  as  if  he  were  some  kind  of 
a  mild  lunatic.  But  as  I  glanced  discreetly  at 
their  small  tableau,  I  was  not  unconscious  of 
the  new  joy  that  came  into  the  landscape  with 
the  presence  of 

"  A  lover  and  his  lass." 

I  knew  how  sweet  the  water  tasted  from  that 
kind  of  a  cup.  I  also  have  lived  in  Arcadia, 
and  have  not  forgotten  the  way  back. 


106 


VI 

A  FATAL  SUCCESS 


What  surprises  me  in  her  behaviour,'1'1  said  he,  "  is  Us  thoroughness. 
Woman  seldom  does  things  by  halves,  but  often  by  doubles. "  —  SOLO 
MON  SINGLEWITZ:  The  Life  of  Adam. 


A  FATAL  SUCCESS 

BEEKMAN  DE  PEYSTER  was  probably  the 
most  passionate  and  triumphant  fisherman  in  the 
Petrine  Club.  He  angled  with  the  same  dash 
and  confidence  that  he  threw  into  his  operations 
in  the  stock-market.  He  was  sure  to  be  the  first 
man  to  get  his  flies  on  the  water  at  the  opening 
of  the  season.  And  when  we  came  together  for 
our  fall  meeting,  to  compare  notes  of  our  wan 
derings  on  various  streams  and  make  up  the 
fish-stories  for  the  year,  Beekman  was  almost 
always  "  high  hook."  We  expected,  as  a  mat 
ter  of  course,  to  hear  that  he  had  taken  the  most 
and  the  largest  fish. 

It  was  so  with  everything  that  he  undertook. 
He  was  a  masterful  man.  If  there  was  an  un 
usually  large  trout  in  a  river,  Beekman  knew 
about  it  before  any  one  else,  and  got  there  first, 
and  came  home  with  the  fish.  It  did  not  make 
him  unduly  proud,  because  there  was  nothing 
uncommon  about  it.  It  was  his  habit  to  suc 
ceed,  and  all  the  rest  of  us  were  hardened  to  it. 

When  he  married  Cornelia  Cochrane,  we  were 
109 


A  FATAL  SUCCESS 

consoled  for  our  partial  loss  by  the  apparent 
fitness  and  brilliancy  of  the  match.  If  Beek 
man  was  a  masterful  man,  Cornelia  was  cer 
tainly  what  you  might  call  a  mistressful  woman. 
She  had  been  the  head  of  her  house  since  she 
was  eighteen  years  old.  She  carried  her  good 
looks  like  the  family  plate  ;  and  when  she  came 
into  the  breakfast-room  and  said  good-morning, 
it  was  with  an  air  as  if  she  presented  every  one 
with  a  check  for  a  thousand  dollars.  Her  tastes 
were  accepted  as  judgments,  and  her  preferences 
had  the  force  of  laws.  Wherever  she  wanted 
to  go  in  the  summer-time,  there  the  finger  of 
household  destiny  pointed.  At  Newport,  at  Bar 
Harbour,  at  Lenox,  at  Southampton,  she  made 
a  record.  When  she  was  joined  in  holy  wed 
lock  to  Beekman  De  Peyster,  her  father  and 
mother  heaved  a  sigh  of  satisfaction,  and  settled 
down  for  a  quiet  vacation  in  Cherry  Valley. 

It  was  in  the  second  summer  after  the  wed 
ding  that  Beekman  admitted  to  a  few  of  his  an, 
cient  Petrine  cronies,  in  moments  of  confidence 
(unjustifiable,  but  natural),  that  his  wife  had 
one  fault. 

"  It  is  not  exactly  a  fault,"  he  said,  "  not  a 
positive  fault,  you  know.  It  is  just  a  kind  of 
a  defect,  due  to  her  education,  of  course.  In 
everything  else  she 's  magnificent.  But  she 
does  n't  care  for  fishing.  She  says  it 's  stupid, 
110 


A  FATAL  SUCCESS 

—  can't  see  why  any  one  should  like  the  woods, 

—  calls  camping  out  the  lunatic's  diversion.   It 's 
rather  awkward  for  a  man  with  my  habits  to 
have  his  wife  take  such  a  view.     But  it  can  be 
changed  by  training.    I  intend  to  educate  her  and 
convert  her.   I  shall  make  an  angler  of  her  yet." 

And  so  he  did. 

The  new  education  was  begun  in  the  Adiron- 
dacks,  and  the  first  lesson  was  given  at  Paul 
Smith's.  It  was  a  complete  failure. 

Beekman  persuaded  her  to  come  out  with  him 
for  a  day  on  Meacham  River,  and  promised  to 
convince  her  of  the  charm  of  angling.  She  wore 
a  new  gown,  fawn-colour  and  violet,  with  a  pic 
ture-hat,  very  taking.  But  the  Meacham  River 
trout  was  shy  that  day ;  not  even  Beekman 
could  induce  him  to  rise  to  the  fly.  What  the 
trout  lacked  in  confidence  the  mosquitoes  more 
than  made  up.  Mrs.  De  Peyster  came  home 
much  sunburned,  and  expressed  a  highly  unfa 
vourable  opinion  of  fishing  as  an  amusement 
and  of  Meacham  River  as  a  resort. 

"  The  nice  people  don't  come  to  the  Adiron- 
dacks  to  fish,"  said  she  ;  "  they  come  to  talk 
about  the  fishing  twenty  years  ago.  Besides, 
what  do  you  want  to  catch  that  trout  for  ?  If 
you  do,  the  other  men  will  say  you  bought  it, 
and  the  hotel  will  have  to  put  in  another  for  the 
rest  of  the  season." 

Ill 


A  FATAL  SUCCESS 

The  following  year  Beekman  tried  Moosehead 
Lake.  Here  he  found  an  atmosphere  more  fa* 
vourable  to  his  plan  of  education.  There  were 
a  good  many  people  who  really  fished,  and  short 
expeditions  in  the  woods  were  quite  fashionable. 
Cornelia  had  a  camping-costume  of  the  most 
approved  style  made  by  Dewlap  on  Fifth  Ave 
nue,  —  pearl-gray  with  linings  of  rose-silk,  —  and 
consented  to  go  with  her  husband  on  a  trip  up 
Moose  River.  They  pitched  their  tent  the  first 
evening  at  the  mouth  of  Misery  Stream,  and  a 
storm  came  on.  The  rain  sifted  through  the 
canvas  in  a  fine  spray,  and  Mrs.  De  Peyster  sat 
up  all  night  in  a  waterproof  cloak,  holding  an 
umbrella.  The  next  day  they  were  back  at  the 
hotel  in  time  for  lunch. 

"  It  was  horrid,"  she  told  her  most  intimate 
friend,  "  perfectly  horrid.  The  idea  of  sleeping 
in  a  shower-bath,  and  eating  your  breakfast 
from  a  tin  plate,  just  for  sake  of  catching  a  few 
silly  fish!  Why  not  send  your  guides  out  to 
get  them  for  you  ?  " 

But,  in  spite  of  this  profession  of  obstinate 
heresy,  Beekman  observed  with  secret  joy  that 
there  were  signs,  before  the  end  of  the  season, 
that  Cornelia  was  drifting  a  little,  a  very  little 
but  still  perceptibly,  in  the  direction  of  a  change 
of  heart.  She  began  to  take  an  interest,  as  the 
big  trout  came  along  in  September,  in  the  re- 
112 


A  FATAL  SUCCESS 

ports  of  the  catches  made  by  the  different  an 
glers.  She  would  saunter  out  with  the  other 
people  to  the  corner  of  the  porch  to  see  the  fish 
weighed  and  spread  out  on  the  grass.  Several 
times  she  went  with  Beekman  in  the  canoe  to 
Hardscrabble  Point,  and  showed  distinct  evi 
dences  of  pleasure  when  he  caught  large  trout. 
The  last  day  of  the  season,  when  he  returned 
from  a  successful  expedition  to  Roach  River  and 
Lily  Bay,  she  inquired  with  some  particularity 
about  the  results  of  his  sport ;  and  in  the  even 
ing,  as  the  company  sat  before  the  great  open 
fire  in  the  hall  of  the  hotel,  she  was  heard  to 
use  this  information  with  considerable  skill  in 
putting  down  Mrs.  Minot  Peabody  of  Boston, 
who  was  recounting  the  details  of  her  husband's 
catch  at  Spencer  Pond.  Cornelia  was  not  a  per 
son  to  be  contented  with  the  back  seat,  even  in 
fish-stories. 

When  Beekman  observed  these  indications  he 
was  much  encouraged,  and  resolved  to  push  his 
educational  experiment  briskly  forward  to  his 
customary  goal  of  success. 

"  Some  things  can  be  done,  as  well  as  others," 
he  said  in  his  masterful  way,  as  three  of  us 
were  walking  home  together  after  the  autumnal 
dinner  of  the  Petrine  Club,  which  he  always 
attended  as  a  graduate  member.  "  A  real  fisher 
man  never  gives  up.  I  told  you  I  'd  make  an 
113 


A  FATAL  SUCCESS 

angler  out  of  my  wife ;  and  so  I  will.  It  has 
been  rather  difficult.  She  is  '  dour '  in  rising. 
But  she's  beginning  to  take  notice  of  the  fly 
now.  Give  me  another  season,  and  I'll  have 
her  landed." 

Good  old  Beekman  !  Little  did  he  think  — 
But  I  must  not  interrupt  the  story  with  moral 
reflections. 

The  preparations  that  he  made  for  his  final 
effort  at  conversion  were  thorough  and  prudent. 
He  had  a  private  interview  with  Dewlap  in  regard 
to  the  construction  of  a  practical  fishing-costume 
for  a  lady,  which  resulted  in  something  more 
reasonable  and  workmanlike  than  had  ever  been 
turned  out  by  that  famous  artist,  tie  ordered 
from  Hook  &  Catchett  a  lady's  angling-outfit  of 
the  most  enticing  description,  —  a  split-bamboo 
rod,  light  as  a  girl's  wish,  and  strong  as  a  ma 
tron's  will  ;  an  oxidized  silver  reel,  with  a  mono 
gram  on  one  side,  and  a  sapphire  set  in  the 
handle  for  good  luck ;  a  book  of  flies,  of  all  sizes 
and  colours,  with  the  correct  names  inscribed  in 
gilt  letters  on  each  page.  He  surrounded  his 
favourite  sport  with  an  aureole  of  elegance  and 
beauty.  And  then  he  took  Cornelia  in  Septem 
ber  to  the  Upper  Dam  at  Kangeley. 

She   went  reluctant.     She  arrived  disgusted. 
She  stayed  incredulous.    She  returned  —    Wait 
a  bit,  and  you  shall  hear  how  she  returned. 
114 


A  FATAL  SUCCESS 

The  Upper  Dam  at  Eangeley  is  the  place, 
of  all  others  in  the  world,  where  the  lunacy 
of  angling  may  be  seen  in  its  incurable  stage. 
There  is  a  cosy  little  inn,  called  a  camp,  at  the 
foot  of  a  big  lake.  In  front  of  the  inn  is  a 
huge  dam  of  gray  stone,  over  which  the  river 
plunges  into  a  great  oval  pool,  where  the  trout 
assemble  in  the  early  fall  to  perpetuate  their 
race.  From  the  tenth  of  September  to  the  thir 
tieth,  there  is  not  an  hour  of  the  day  or  night 
when  there  are  no  boats  floating  on  that  pool, 
and  no  anglers  trailing  the  fly  across  its  waters. 
Before  the  late  fishermen  are  ready  to  come  in 
at  midnight,  the  early  fishermen  may  be  seen 
creeping  down  to  the  shore  with  lanterns  in 
order  to  begin  before  cock-crow.  The  number 
of  fish  taken  is  not  large,  —  perhaps  five  or  six 
for  the  whole  company  on  an  average  day, — 
but  the  size  is  sometimes  enormous,  —  nothing 
under  three  pounds  is  counted,  —  and  they  per 
vade  thought  and  conversation  at  the  Upper 
Dam  to  the  exclusion  of  every  other  subject. 
There  is  no  driving,  no  dancing,  no  golf,  no 
tennis.  There  is  nothing  to  do  but  fish  or  die. 

At  first,  Cornelia  thought  she  would  choose 
the  latter  alternative.  But  a  remark  of  that 
skilful  and  morose  old  angler,  McTurk,  which 
she  overheard  on  the  verandah  after  supper, 
changed  her  mind. 

115 


A  FATAL  SUCCESS 

"  Women  have  no  sporting  instinct,"  said  he. 
"  They  only  fish  because  they  see  men  doing  it. 
They  are  imitative  animals." 

That  same  night  she  told  Beekman,  in  the 
subdued  tone  which  the  architectural  construc 
tion  of  the  house  imposes  upon  all  confidential 
communications  in  the  bedrooms,  but  with  reso 
lution  in  every  accent,  that  she  proposed  to  go 
fishing  with  him  on  the  morrow. 

"  But  not  on  that  pool,  right  in  front  of  the 
house,  you  understand.  There  must  be  some 
other  place,  out  on  the  lake,  where  we  can  fish 
for  three  or  four  days,  until  I  get  the  trick 
of  this  wobbly  rod.  Then  I'll  show  that  old 
bear,  McTurk,  what  kind  of  an  animal  wo 
man  is." 

Beekman  was  simply  delighted.  Five  days 
of  diligent  practice  at  the  mouth  of  Mill  Brook 
brought  his  pupil  to  the  point  where  he  pro 
nounced  her  safe. 

"  Of  course,"  he  said  patronizingly,  "  you 
haven't  learned  all  about  it  yet.  That  will 
take  years.  But  you  can  get  your  fly  out  thirty 
feet,  and  you  can  keep  the  tip  of  your  rod  up. 
If  you  do  that,  the  trout  will  hook  himself,  in 
rapid  water,  eight  times  out  of  ten.  For  play 
ing  him,  if  you  follow  my  directions,  you  '11  be 
all  right.  We  will  try  the  pool  to-night,  and 
hope  for  a  medium-sized  fish." 
116 


A  FATAL  SUCCESS 

Cornelia  said  nothing,  but  smiled  and  nodded. 
She  had  her  own  thoughts. 

At  about  nine  o'clock  Saturday  night,  they 
anchored  their  boat  on  the  edge  of  the  shoal 
where  the  big  eddy  swings  around,  put  out  the 
lantern  and  began  to  fish.  Beekman  sat  in  the 
bow  of  the  boat,  with  his  rod  over  the  left 
side ;  Cornelia  in  the  stern,  with  her  rod  over 
the  right  side.  The  night  was  cloudy  and  very 
black.  Each  of  them  had  put  on  the  largest 
possible  fly,  one  a  "  Bee-Pond  "  and  the  other  a 
"  Dragon  ;  "  but  even  these  were  invisible.  They 
measured  out  the  right  length  of  line,  and  let  the 
flies  drift  back  until  they  hung  over  the  shoal, 
in  the  curly  water  where  the  two  currents  meet. 

There  were  three  other  boats  to  the  left  of 
them.  McTurk  was  their  only  neighbour  in 
the  darkness  on  the  right.  Once  they  heard 
him  swearing  softly  to  himself,  and  knew  that 
he  had  hooked  and  lost  a  fish. 

Away  down  at  the  tail  of  the  pool,  dimly 
visible  through  the  gloom,  the  furtive  fisher 
man,  Parsons,  had  anchored  his  boat.  No  noise 
ever  came  from  that  craft.  If  he  wished  to 
change  his  position,  he  did  not  pull  up  the  an 
chor  and  let  it  down  again  with  a  bump.  He 
simply  lengthened  or  shortened  his  anchor  rope. 
There  was  no  click  of  the  reel  when  he  played  a 
fish.  He  drew  in  and  paid  out  the  line  through 
117 


A  FATAL  SUCCESS 

the  rings  by  hand,  without  a  sound.  What  he 
thought  when  a  fish  got  away,  no  one  knew,  for 
he  never  said  it.  He  concealed  his  angling  as  if 
it  had  been  a  conspiracy.  Twice  that  night  they 
heard  a  faint  splash  in  the  water  near  his  boat, 
and  twice  they  saw  him  put  his  arm  over  the  side 
in  the  darkness  and  bring  it  back  again  very 
quietly. 

"  That 's  the  second  fish  for  Parsons,"  whis 
pered  Beekman,  "  what  a  secretive  old  Fortuna- 
tus  he  is !  He  knows  more  about  fishing  than 
any  man  on  the  pool,  and  talks  less." 

Cornelia  did  not  answer.  Her  thoughts  were 
all  on  the  tip  of  her  own  rod.  About  eleven 
o'clock  a  fine,  drizzling  rain  set  in.  The  fishing 
was  very  slack.  All  the  other  boats  gave  it  up 
in  despair ;  but  Cornelia  said  she  wanted  to  stay 
out  a  little  longer,  they  might  as  well  finish  up 
the  week. 

At  precisely  fifty  minutes  past  eleven,  Beek 
man  reeled  up  his  line,  and  remarked  with  firm 
ness  that  the  holy  Sabbath  day  was  almost  at 
hand  and  they  ought  to  go  in. 

"  Not  till  I  've  landed  this  trout,"  said  Cor 
nelia. 

"  What  ?    A  trout !     Have  you  got  one  ?  " 

"  Certainly ;  I  Ve  had  him  on  for  at  least 
fifteen  minutes.  I  'm  playing  him  Mr.  Parsons' 
way.  You  might  as  well  light  the  lantern  and 
118 


A  FATAL  SUCCESS 

get  the  net  ready ;  he 's  coming  in  towards  the 
boat  now." 

Beekman  broke  three  matches  before  he  made 
the  lantern  burn  ;  and  when  he  held  it  up  over 
the  gunwale,  there  was  the  trout  sure  enough, 
gleaming  ghostly  pale  in  the  dark  water,  close 
to  the  boat,  and  quite  tired  out.  He  slipped  the 
net  over  the  fish  and  drew  it  in,  —  a  monster. 

"  I  '11  carry  that  trout,  if  you  please,"  said 
Cornelia,  as  they  stepped  out  of  the  boat ;  and 
she  walked  into  the  camp,  on  the  last  stroke  of 
midnight,  with  the  fish  in  her  hand,  and  quietly 
asked  for  the  steelyard. 

Eight  pounds  and  fourteen  ounces,  —  that 
was  the  weight.  Everybody  was  amazed.  It 
was  the  "  best  fish "  of  the  year.  Cornelia 
showed  no  sign  of  exultation,  until  just  as  John 
was  carrying  the  trout  to  the  ice-house.  Then 
she  flashed  out :  — 

"  Quite  a  fair  imitation,  Mr.  McTurk,  —  is  n't 
it?" 

Now  McTurk's  best  record  for  the  last  fifteen 
years  was  seven  pounds  and  twelve  ounces. 

So  far  as  McTurk  is  concerned,  this  is  the  end 
of  the  story.  But  not  for  the  De  Peysters.  I 
wish  it  were.  Beekman  went  to  sleep  that  night 
with  a  contented  spirit.  He  felt  that  his  experi 
ment  in  education  had  been  a  success.  He  had 
made  his  wife  an  angler. 
119 


A  FATAL  SUCCESS 

He  had  indeed,  and  to  an  extent  which  he 
little  suspected.  That  Upper  Dam  trout  was 
to  her  like  the  first  taste  of  blood  to  the  tiger. 
It  seemed  to  change,  at  once,  not  so  much  her 
character  as  the  direction  of  her  vital  energy. 
She  yielded  to  the  lunacy  of  angling,  not  by 
slow  degrees,  (as  first  a  transient  delusion,  then 
a  fixed  idea,  then  a  chronic  infirmity,  finally  a 
mild  insanity,)  but  by  a  sudden  plunge  into  the 
most  violent  mania.  So  far  from  being  ready 
to  die  at  Upper  Dam,  her  desire  now  was  to  live 
there  —  and  to  live  solely  for  the  sake  of  fish 
ing  —  as  long  as  the  season  was  open. 

There  were  two  hundred  and  forty  hours  left 
to  midnight  on  the  thirtieth  of  September.  At 
least  two  hundred  of  these  she  spent  on  the  pool ; 
and  when  Beekman  was  too  exhausted  to  man 
age  the  boat  and  the  net  and  the  lantern  for 
her,  she  engaged  a  trustworthy  guide  to  take 
Beekman's  place  while  he  slept.  At  the  end  of 
the  last  day  her  score  was  twenty-three,  with  an 
average  of  five  pounds  and  a  quarter.  His  score 
was  nine,  with  an  average  of  four  pounds.  He 
had  succeeded  far  beyond  his  wildest  hopes. 

The  next  year  his  success  became  even  more 
astonishing.  They  went  to  the  Titan  Club  in 
Canada.  The  ugliest  and  most  inaccessible 
sheet  of  water  in  that  territory  is  Lake  Pha 
raoh.  But  it  is  famous  for  the  extraordinary 
120 


A  FATAL  SUCCESS 

fishing  at  a  certain  spot  near  the  outlet,  where 
there  is  just  room  enough  for  one  canoe.  They 
camped  on  Lake  Pharaoh  for  six  weeks,  by 
Mrs.  De  Peyster's  command ;  and  her  canoe  was 
always  the  first  to  reach  the  fishing-ground  in 
the  morning,  and  the  last  to  leave  it  in  the  even 
ing. 

Some  one  asked  him,  when  he  returned  to  the 
city,  whether  he  had  good  luck. 

"  Quite  fair,"  he  tossed  off  in  a  careless  way ; 
"  we  took  over  three  hundred  pounds." 

"  To  your  own  rod  ?  "  asked  the  inquirer,  in 
admiration. 

"  No-o-o,"  said  Beekman,  "  there  were  two 
of  us." 

There  were  two  of  them,  also,  the  following 
year,  when  they  joined  the  Natasheebo  Salmon 
Club  and  fished  that  celebrated  river  in  Labra 
dor.  The  custom  of  drawing  lots  every  night 
for  the  water  that  each  member  was  to  angle 
over  the  next  day,  seemed  to  be  especially  de 
signed  to  fit  the  situation.  Mrs.  De  Peyster 
could  fish  her  own  pool  and  her  husband's  too. 
The  result  of  that  year's  fishing  was  something 
phenomenal.  She  had  a  score  that  made  a 
paragraph  in  the  newspapers  and  called  out 
editorial  comment.  One  editor  was  so  inade 
quate  to  the  situation  as  to  entitle  the  article  in 
which  he  described  her  triumph  "  The  Equiv« 
121 


A  FATAL  SUCCESS 

alence  of  Woman."  It  was  well-meant,  but  she 
was  not  at  all  pleased  with  it. 

She  was  now  not  merely  an  angler,  but  a 
"  record "  angler  of  the  most  virulent  type. 
Wherever  they  went,  she  wanted,  and  she  got, 
the  pick  of  the  water.  She  seemed  to  be  equally 
at  home  on  all  kinds  of  streams,  large  and  small. 
She  would  pursue  the  little  mountain-brook 
trout  in  the  early  spring,  and  the  Labrador 
salmon  in  July,  and  the  huge  speckled  trout  of 
the  northern  lakes  in  September,  with  the  same 
avidity  and  resolution.  All  that  she  cared  for 
was  to  get  the  best  and  the  most  of  the  fishing 
at  each  place  where  she  angled.  This  she  always 
did. 

And  Beekman,  —  well,  for  him  there  were  no 
more  long  separations  from  the  partner  of  his 
life  while  he  went  off  to  fish  some  favourite 
stream.  There  were  no  more  home-comings 
after  a  good  day's  sport  to  find  her  clad  in  cool 
and  dainty  raiment  on  the  verandah,  ready  to 
welcome  him  with  friendly  badinage.  There 
was  not  even  any  casting  of  the  fly  around 
Hardscrabble  Point  while  she  sat  in  the  canoe 
reading  a  novel,  looking  up  with  mild  and  plea 
sant  interest  when  he  caught  a  larger  fish  than 
usual,  as  an  older  and  wiser  person  looks  at  a 
child  playing  some  innocent  game.  Those  days 
of  a  divided  interest  between  man  and  wife  were 
122 


A  FATAL  SUCCESS 

gone.  She  was  now  fully  converted,  and  more. 
Beekman  and  Cornelia  were  one ;  and  she  was 
the  one. 

The  last  time  I  saw  the  De  Peysters  he  was 
following  her  along  the  Beaverkill,  carrying  a 
landing-net  and  a  basket,  but  no  rod.  She 
paused  for  a  moment  to  exchange  greetings,  and 
then  strode  on  down  the  stream.  He  lingered 
for  a  few  minutes  longer  to  light  a  pipe. 

"  Well,  old  man,"  I  said,  "  you  certainly  have 
succeeded  in  making  an  angler  of  Mrs.  De  Pey- 
ster." 

"  Yes,  indeed,"  he  answered,  —  "  haven't  I?  " 
Then  he  continued,  after  a  few  thoughtful  puffs 
of  smoke,  "  Do  you  know,  I  'm  not  quite  so  sure 
as  I  used  to  be  that  fishing  is  the  best  of  all 
sports.  I  sometimes  think  of  giving  it  up  and 
going  in  for  croquet." 


123 


VII 

FISHING  IN   BOOKS 


1  SIMPSON.  —  Have  you  ever  seen  any  A  merican  books  on  angling. 
Fisher  ? 

'  FISHER.  —  No.  I  do  not  think  there  are  any  published.  Brother  Jona 
than  is  not  yet  sufficiently  civilized  to  produce  anything  original  on  the 
gentle  art.  There  is  good  trout-fishing  in  A  merica,  and  the  streams, 
•which  are  all  free,  are  much  less  fished  than  in  our  Island,  'from  the 
small  number  of  gentlemen?  as  an  A  merican  writer  says,  '  who  are  at 
leisure  to  give  their  time  to  itS  "  —WILLIAM  ANDREW  CHATTO  :  The 
Angler's  Souvenir  (London,  1835). 


FISHING  IN   BOOKS 

THAT  wise  man  and  accomplished  scholar,  Sir 
Henry  Wotton,  the  friend  of  Izaak  Walton  and 
ambassador  of  King  James  I.  to  the  republic  of 
Venice,  was  accustomed  to  say  that  "  he  would 
rather  live  five  May  months  than  forty  De 
cembers."  The  reason  for  this  preference  was 
no  secret  to  those  who  knew  him.  It  had  no 
thing  to  do  with  British  or  Venetian  politics. 
It  was  simply  because  December,  with  all  its 
domestic  joys,  is  practically  a  dead  month  in 
the  angler's  calendar. 

His  occupation  is  gone.  The  better  sort  of 
fish  are  out  of  season.  The  trout  are  lean  and 
haggard  :  it  is  no  trick  to  catch  them  and  no 
treat  to  eat  them.  The  salmon,  all  except  the 
silly  kelts,  have  run  out  to  sea,  and  the  place 
of  their  habitation  no  man  knoweth.  There  is 
nothing  for  the  angler  to  do  but  wait  for  the 
return  of  spring,  and  meanwhile  encourage  and 
sustain  his  patience  with  such  small  consolations 
in  kind  as  a  friendly  Providence  may  put  within 
his  reach. 

127 


FISHING  IN  BOOKS 

SOME  solace  may  be  found,  on  a  day  of  crisp, 
wintry  weather,  in  the  childish  diversion  of 
catching  pickerel  through  the  ice.  This  method 
of  taking  fish  is  practised  on  a  large  scale  and 
with  elaborate  machinery  by  men  who  supply 
the  market.  I  speak  not  of  their  commercial 
enterprise  and  its  gross  equipage,  but  of  ice- 
fishing  in  its  more  sportive  and  desultory  form, 
as  it  is  pursued  by  country  boys  and  the  incor 
rigible  village  idler. 

You  choose  for  this  pastime  a  pond  where 
the  ice  is  not  too  thick,  lest  the  labour  of  cutting 
through  should  be  discouraging ;  nor  too  thin, 
lest  the  chance  of  breaking  in  should  be  embar 
rassing.  You  then  chop  out,  with  almost  any 
kind  of  a  hatchet  or  pick,  a  number  of  holes  in 
the  ice,  making  each  one  six  or  eight  inches  in 
diameter,  and  placing  them  about  five  or  six  feet 
apart.  If  you  happen  to  know  the  course  of  a 
current  flowing  through  the  pond,  or  the  loca 
tion  of  a  shoal  frequented  by  minnows,  you  will 
do  well  to  keep  near  it.  Over  each  hole  you 
set  a  small  contrivance  called  a  "  tilt-up."  It 
consists  of  two  sticks  fastened  in  the  middle,  at 
right  angles  to  each  other.  The  stronger  of  the 
two  is  laid  across  the  opening  in  the  ice.  The 
other  is  thus  balanced  above  the  aperture,  with 
a  baited  hook  and  line  attached  to  one  end, 
while  the  other  end  is  adorned  with  a  little  flag, 
128 


FISHING  IN  BOOKS 

For  choice,  I  would  have  the  flags  red.     They 
look  gayer,  and  I  imagine  they  are  more  luck}^. 

When  you  have  thus  baited  and  set  your  tilt- 
ups,  —  twenty  or  thirty  of  them,  —  you  may 
put  on  your  skates  and  amuse  yourself  by  glid 
ing  to  and  fro  on  the  smooth  surface  of  the  ice, 
cutting  figures  of  eight  and  grapevines  and  dia 
mond  twists,  while  you  wait  for  the  pickerel  to 
begin  their  part  of  the  performance.  They  will 
let  you  know  when  they  are  ready. 

A  fish,  swimming  around  in  the  dim  depths 
under  the  ice,  sees  one  of  your  baits,  fancies  it, 
and  takes  it  in.  The  moment  he  tries  to  run 
away  with  it,  he  tilts  the  little  red  flag  into  the 
air  and  waves  it  backward  and  forward.  "  Be 
quick !  "  he  signals  all  unconsciously ;  "  here  I 
am ;  come  and  pull  me  up !  " 

When  two  or  three  flags  are  fluttering  at 
the  same  moment,  far  apart  on  the  pond,  you 
must  skate  with  speed  and  haul  in  your  lines 
promptly. 

How  hard  it  is,  sometimes,  to  decide  which 
one  you  will  take  first !  That  flag  in  the  middle 
of  the  pond  has  been  waving  for  at  least  a  min 
ute  ;  but  the  other,  in  the  corner  of  the  bay,  is 
tilting  up  and  down  more  violently :  it  must  be 
a  larger  fish.  Great  Dagon !  there  's  another 
red  signal  flying,  away  over  by  the  point !  You 
hesitate,  you  make  a  few  strokes  in  one  direc- 
129 


FISHING  IN  BOOKS 

tion,  then  you  whirl  around  and  dart  the  other 
way.  Meantime  one  of  the  tilt-ups,  constructed 
with  too  short  a  cross-stick,  has  been  pulled  to 
one  side,  and  disappears  in  the  hole.  One  pick 
erel  in  the  pond  carries  a  flag.  Another  tilt-up 
ceases  to  move  and  falls  flat  upon  the  ice.  The 
bait  has  been  stolen.  You  dash  desperately 
towards  the  third  flag  and  pull  in  the  only  fish 
that  is  left,  —  probably  the  smallest  of  them 
all! 

A  surplus  of  opportunities  does  not  insure 
the  best  luck. 

A  room  with  seven  doors  —  like  the  famous 
apartment  in  Washington's  headquarters  at 
Newburgh —  is  an  invitation  to  bewilderment. 
I  would  rather  see  one  fair  opening  in  life  than 
be  confused  by  three  dazzling  chances. 

There  was  a  good  story  about  fishing  through 
the  ice  which  formed  part  of  the  stock-in-con- 
versation  of  that  ingenious  woodsman,  Martin 
Moody,  Esquire,  of  Big  Tupper  Lake.  "  '  T  was 
a  blame  cold  day,"  he  said,  "  and  the  lines  friz 
up  stiffer  'n  a  fence-wire,  jus'  as  fast  as  I  pulled 
'em  in,  and  my  fingers  got  so  dum'  frosted  I 
couldn't  bait  the  hooks.  But  the  fish  was 
thicker  and  hungrier  'n  flies  in  June.  So  I  jus' 
took  a  piece  of  bait  and  held  it  over  one  o'  the 
holes.  Every  time  a  fish  jumped  up  to  git  it, 
I  'd  kick  him  out  on  the  ice.  I  tell  ye,  sir,  I 
130 


FISHING  IN  BOOKS 

kicked  out  more  'n  four  hundred  pounds  of 
pick'rel  that  morning.  Yaas,  'twas  a  big  lot, 
I  'low,  but  then  't  was  a  cold  day !  I  jus' 
stacked  'em  up  solid,  like  cordwood." 

Let  us  now  leave  this  frigid  subject !  Iced 
fishing  is  but  a  chilling  and  unsatisfactory  imi 
tation  of  real  sport.  The  angler  will  soon  turn 
from  it  with  satiety,  and  seek  a  better  consola 
tion  for  the  winter  of  his  discontent  in  the  en 
tertainment  of  fishing  in  books. 

ANGLING  is  the  only  sport  that  boasts  the 
honour  of  having  given  a  classic  to  literature. 

Izaak  Walton's  success  with  The  Compleat 
Angler  was  a  fine  illustration  of  fisherman's 
luck.  He  set  out,  with  some  aid  from  an  adept 
in  fly-fishing  and  cookery,  named  Thomas  Bar 
ker,  to  produce  a  little  "discourse  of  fish  and 
fishing"  which  should  serve  as  a  useful  manual 
for  quiet  persons  inclined  to  follow  the  contem 
plative  man's  recreation.  He  came  home  with  a 
book  which  has  made  his  name  beloved  by  ten 
generations  of  gentle  readers,  and  given  hirn  a 
secure  place  in  the  Pantheon  of  letters, — not  a 
haughty  eminence,  but  a  modest  niche,  all  his 
own,  and  ever  adorned  with  grateful  offerings 
of  fresh  flowers. 

This  was  great  luck.  But  it  was  well-de 
served,  and  therefore  it  has  not  been  grudged 
or  envied. 

131 


FISHING  IN  BOOKS 

Walton  was  a  man  so  peaceful  and  contented, 
so  friendly  in  his  disposition,  and  so  innocent  in 
all  his  goings,  that  only  two  other  writers,  so  far 
as  I  know,  have  ever  spoken  ill  of  him.* 

One  was  that  sour-complexioned  Cromwellian 
trooper,  Richard  Franck,  who  wrote  in  1658  an 
envious  book  entitled  Northern  Memoirs,  calcu 
lated  for  the  Meridian  of  Scotland,  &c.,  to 
which  is  added  The  Contemplative  and  Practi 
cal  Angler.  In  this  book  the  furious  Franck 
first  pays  Walton  the  flattery  of  imitation,  and 
then  further  adorns  him  with  abuse,  calling  The 
Compleat  Angler  "  an  indigested  octavo,  stuffed 
with  morals  from  Dubravius  and  others,"  and 
more  than  hinting  that  the  father  of  anglers 
knew  little  or  nothing  of  "  his  uncultivated  art." 
Walton  was  a  Churchman  and  a  Loyalist,  you 
see,  while  Franck  was  a  Commonwealth  man 
and  an  Independent. 

The  other  detractor  of  Walton  was  Lord 
Byron,  who  wrote 

"  The  quaint,  old,  cruel  coxcomb  in  his  gullet 
Should  have  a  hook,  and  a  small  trout  to  pull  it." 

But  Byron  is  certainly  a  poor  authority  on  the 
quality  of  mercy.  His  contempt  need  not  cause 
an  honest  man  overwhelming  distress.  I  should 
call  it  a  complimentary  dislike. 

Walton  was  a  great  quoter.  His  book  is  not 
"stuffed,"  as  Franck  jealously  alleged,  but  it 

*  I  forgot  Leigh  Hunt. 

132 


Walton  was  a  man  so  peaceful  and  contented." 


FISHING  IN  BOOKS 

is  certainly  well  sauced  with  piquant  references 
to  other  writers,  as  early  as  the  author  of  the 
Book  of  Job,  and  as  late  as  John  Dennys,  who 
betrayed  to  the  world  The  Secrets  of  Angling 
in  1613.  Walton  further  seasoned  his  book 
with  fragments  of  information  about  fish  and 
fishing,  more  or  less  apocryphal,  gathered  from 
2Elian,  Pliny,  Plutarch,  Sir  Francis  Bacon, 
Dubravius,  Gesner,  Rondeletius,  the  learned 
Aldrovandus,  the  venerable  Bede,  the  divine  Du 
Bartas,  and  many  others.  He  borrowed  freely 
for  the  adornment  of  his  discourse,  and  did  not 
scorn  to  make  use  of  what  may  be  called  live 
quotations,  —  that  is  to  say,  the  unpublished 
remarks  of  his  near  contemporaries,  caught  in 
friendly  conversation,  or  handed  down  by  oral 
tradition. 

But  these  various  seasonings  did  not  disguise, 
they  only  enhanced,  the  delicate  flavour  of  the 
dish  which  he  served  up  to  his  readers.  This 
was  all  of  his  own  taking,  and  of  a  sweetness 
quite  incomparable. 

I  like  a  writer  who  is  original  enough  to  water 
his  garden  with  quotations,  without  fear  of  being 
drowned  out.  Such  men  are  Charles  Lamb  and 
James  Russell  Lowell  and  John  Burroughs. 

Walton's  book  is  as  fresh  as  a  handful  of 
wild  violets  and  sweet  lavender.  It  breathes 
the  odours  of  the  green  fields  and  the  woods. 
133 


FISHING  IN  BOOKS 

It  tastes  of  simple,  homely,  appetizing  things 
like  the  "  syllabub  of  new  verjuice  in  a  new- 
made  haycock  "  which  the  milkwoman  promised 
to  give  Piscator  the  next  time  he  came  that 
way.  Its  music  plays  the  tune  of  A  Contented 
Heart  over  and  over  again  without  dulness,  and 
charms  us  into  harmony  with 

"  A  noise  like  the  sound  of  a  hidden  brook 
In  the  leafy  month  of  June, 
That  to  the  sleeping  woods  all  night 
Singeth  a  quiet  tune." 

Walton  has  been  quoted  even  more  than  any 
of  the  writers  whom  he  quotes.  It  would  be 
difficult,  even  if  it  were  not  ungrateful,  to  write 
about  angling  without  referring  to  him.  Some 
pretty  saying,  some  wise  reflection  from  his 
pages,  suggests  itself  at  almost  every  turn  of  the 
subject. 

And  yet  his  book,  though  it  be  the  best,  is 
not  the  only  readable  one  that  his  favourite  re 
creation  has  begotten.  The  literature  of  angling 
is  extensive,  as  any  one  may  see  who  will  look 
at  the  list  of  the  collection  presented  by  Mr. 
John  Bartlett  to  Harvard  University,  or  study 
the  catalogue  of  the  piscatorial  library  of  Mr. 
Dean  Sage,  of  Albany,  who  himself  has  contrib 
uted  an  admirable  book  on  The  Ristigouche. 

Nor  is  this  literature  altogether  composed  of 
dry  and  technical  treatises,  interesting  only  to 
134 


FISHING  IN  BOOKS 

the  confirmed  anglimaniac,  or  to  the  young  nov 
ice  ardent  in  pursuit  of  practical  information. 
There  is  a  good  deal  of  juicy  reading  in  it. 

BOOKS  about  angling  should  be  divided  (ac 
cording  to  De  Quincey's  method)  into  two 
classes,  —  the  literature  of  knowledge,  and  the 
literature  of  power. 

The  first  class  contains  the  handbooks  on 
rods  and  tackle,  the  directions  how  to  angle  for 
different  kinds  of  fish,  and  the  guides  to  various 
fishing-resorts.  The  weakness  of  these  books  is 
that  they  soon  fall  out  of  date,  as'  the  manufac 
ture  of  tackle  is  improved,  the  art  of  angling 
refined,  and  the  fish  in  once-famous  waters  are 
educated  or  exterminated. 

Alas,  how  transient  is  the  fashion  of  this 
world,  even  in  angling  !  The  old  manuals  with 
their  precise  instruction  for  trimming  and 
painting  trout-rods  eighteen  feet  long',  and  their 
painful  description  of  "  oyntments "  made  of 
nettle-juice,  fish-hawk  oil,  camphor,  cat's  fat,  or 
assafosdita,  (supposed  to  allure  the  fish,)  are 
altogether  behind  the  age.  Many  of  the  flies 
described  by  Charles  Cotton  and  Thomas  Bar 
ker  seem  to  have  gone  out  of  style  among  the 
trout.  Perhaps  familiarity  has  bred  contempt. 
Generation  after  generation  of  fish  have  seen 
these  same  old  feathered  confections  floating  on 
135 


FISHING  IN  BOOKS 

the  water,  and  learned  by  sharp  experience  that 
they  do  not  taste  good.  The  blase  trout  demand 
something  new,  something  modern.  It  is  for 
this  reason,  I  suppose,  that  an  altogether  origi 
nal  fly,  unheard  of,  startling,  will  often  do  great 
execution  in  an  over-fished  pool. 

Certain  it  is  that  the  art  of  angling,  in  settled 
regions,  is  growing  more  dainty  and  difficult. 
You  must  cast  a  longer,  lighter  line ;  you  must 
use  finer  leaders ;  you  must  have  your  flies 
dressed  on  smaller  hooks. 

And  another  thing  is  certain  :  in  many  places 
(described  in  the  ancient  volumes)  where  fish 
were  once  abundant,  they  are  now  like  the  ship 
wrecked  sailors  in  Vergil  his  ^Eneid,  — 

4 '  rari  nantes  in  gurgite  vasto." 

The  floods  themselves  are  also  disappearing. 
Mr.  Edmund  Clarence  Stedman  was  telling  me, 
the  other  day,  of  the  trout-brook  that  used  to 
run  through  the  Connecticut  village  when  he 
nourished  a  poet's  youth.  He  went  back  to 
visit  the  stream  a  few  years  since,  and  it  was 
gone,  literally  vanished  from  the  face  of  earth, 
stolen  to  make  a  water-supply  for  the  town,  and 
used  for  such  base  purposes  as  the  washing  of 
clothes  and  the  sprinkling  of  streets. 

I  remember   an  expedition  with  my   father, 
some  twenty  years  ago,  to  Nova  Scotia,  whither 
136 


FISHING  IN  BOOKS 

we  set  out  to  realize  the  hopes  kindled  by  an 
Angler's  Guide  written  in  the  early  sixties. 
It  was  like  looking  for  tall  clocks  in  the  farm 
houses  around  Boston.  The  harvest  had  been 
well  gleaned  before  our  arrival,  and  in  the  very 
place  where  our  visionary  author  located  his 
most  famous  catch  we  found  a  summer  hotel  and 
a  sawmill. 

'T  is  strange  and  sad,  how  many  regions  there 
are  where  "  the  fishing  was  wonderful  forty 
years  ago  " ! 

THE  second  class  of  angling  books  —  the  lit 
erature  of  power  —  includes  all  (even  those 
written  with  some  purpose  of  instruction)  in 
which  the  gentle  fascinations  of  the  sport,  the 
attractions  of  living  out-of-doors,  the  beauties  of 
stream  and  woodland,  the  recollections  of  happy 
adventure,  and  the  cheerful  thoughts  that  make 
the  best  of  a  day's  luck,  come  clearly  before  the 
author's  mind  and  find  some  fit  expression  in  his 
words.  Of  such  books,  thank  Heaven,  there  is 
a  plenty  to  bring  a  Maytide  charm  and  cheer 
into  the  fisherman's  dull  December.  I  will 
name,  by  way  of  random  tribute  from  a  grateful 
but  unmethodical  memory,  a  few  of  these  conso 
latory  volumes. 

First  of  all  comes  a  family  of  books  that  were 
born  in  Scotland  and  smell  of  the  heather. 
137 


FISHING  IN  BOOKS 

Whatever  a  Scotchman's  conscience  permits 
him  to  do,  is  likely  to  be  done  with  vigour  and  a 
fiery  mind.  In  trade  and  in  theology,  in  fishing 
and  in  fighting,  he  is  all  there  and  thoroughly 
kindled. 

There  is  an  old-fashioned  book  called  TJie 
Moor  and  the  Loch,  by  John  Colquhouii,  which 
is  full  of  contagious  enthusiasm.  Thomas 
Tod  Stoddart  was  a  most  impassioned  angler, 
(though  over-given  to  strong  language,)  and  in 
his  Angling  Reminiscences  he  has  touched  the 
subject  with  a  happy  hand,  —  happiest  when 
he  breaks  into  poetry  and  tosses  out  a  song  for 
the  fisherman.  Professor  John  Wilson  of  the 
University  of  Edinburgh  held  the  chair  of 
Moral  Philosophy  in  that  institution,  but  his 
true  fame  rests  on  his  well-earned  titles  of  A.  M. 
and  F.  K.  S.,  —  Master  of  Angling,  and  Fish 
erman  Royal  of  Scotland.  His  Recreations 
of  Christopher  North,  albeit  their  humour  is 
sometimes  too  boisterously  hammered  in,  are 
genial  and  generous  essays,  overflowing  with  pas 
sages  of  good-fellowship  and  pedestrian  fancy. 
I  would  recommend  any  person  in  a  dry  and 
melancholy  state  of  mind  to  read  his  paper  on 
"  Streams,"  in  the  first  volume  of  Essays  Crit 
ical  and  Imaginative.  But  it  must  be  said,  by 
way  of  warning  to  those  with  whom  dryness  is 
a  matter  of  principle,  that  all  Scotch  fishing- 
138 


FISHING  IN  BOOKS 

books  are  likely  to  be  sprinkled  with  Highland 
Dew. 

Among  English  anglers,  Sir  Humphry  Davy 
is  one  of  whom  Christopher  North  speaks  rather 
slightingly.  Nevertheless  his  Salmonia  is  well 
worth  reading,  not  only  because  it  was  written 
by  a  learned  man,  but  because  it  exhales  the 
spirit  of  cheerful  piety  and  vital  wisdom. 
Charles  Kingsley  was  another  great  man  who 
wrote  well  about  angling.  His  Chalk- Stream 
Studies  are  clear  and  sparkling.  They  cleanse 
the  mind  and  refresh  the  heart  and  put  us  more 
in  love  with  living.  Of  quite  a  different  style 
are  the  Maxims  and  Hints  for  an  Angler, 
and  Miseries  of  Fishing,  which  were  written 
by  Richard  Penn,  a  grandson  of  the  founder  of 
Pennsylvania.  This  is  a  curious  and  rare  little 
volume,  professing  to  be  a  compilation  from  the 
"  Common  Place  Book  of  the  Houghton  Fishing 
Club,"  and  dealing  with  the  subject  from  a  Pick 
wickian  point  of  view.  I  suppose  that  William 
Penn  would  have  thought  his  grandson  a  frivo 
lous  writer. 

But  he  could  not  have  entertained  such  an 
opinion  of  the  Honourable  Robert  Boyle,  of 
whose  Occasional  lieflections  no  less  than  twelve 
discourses  treat  "  of  Angling  Improved  to  Spirit 
ual  Uses."  The  titles  of  some  of  these  discourses 
are  quaint  enough  to  quote.  "  Upon  the  being 
139 


FISHING  IN  BOOKS 

called  upon  to  rise  early  on  a  very  fair  morning." 
"  Upon  the  mounting,  singing,  and  lighting  of 
larks."  "Upon  fishing  with  a  counterfeit  fly." 
"  Upon  a  danger  arising  from  an  unseasonable 
contest  with  the  steersman."  "  Upon  one's  drink 
ing  water  out  of  the  brim  of  his  hat."  With 
such  good  texts  it  is  easy  to  endure,  and  easier 
still  to  spare,  the  sermons. 

Englishmen  carry  their  love  of  travel  into  their 
anglimania,  and  many  of  their  books  describe 
fishing  adventures  in  foreign  parts.  It  ambles 
with  a  Fishing-Rod,  by  E.  S.  Roscoe,  tells  of 
happy  days  in  the  Salzkammergut  and  the  Ba* 
varian  Highlands  and  Normandy.  Fisli-Tails 
and  a  Few  Others,  by  Bradnock  Hall,  con^ 
tains  some  delightful  chapters  on  Norway.  The 
Rod  in  India,  by  H.  S.  Thomas,  narrates  won 
derful  adventures  with  the  Mahseer  and  the 
Eohu  and  other  pagan  fish. 

But,  after  all,  I  like  the  English  angler  best 
when  he  travels  at  home,  and  writes  of  dry-fly 
fishing  in  the  Itchen  or  the  Test,  or  of  wet-fly 
fishing  in  Northumberland,  as  Sir  Edward  Grey 
has  lately  done  in  his  charming  contribution  to 
The  Haddon  Hall  Library.  There  is  a  fas- 
cinating  booklet  that  appeared  quietly,  some 
fifteen  years  ago,  called  An  Amateur  Angler's 
Days  in  Dove  Dale.  It  runs  as  easily  and 
merrily  and  kindly  as  a  little  river,  full  of  peace 
140 


FISHING  IN  BOOKS 

and  pure  enjoyment.  Other  books  of  the  same 
quality  have  since  been  written  by  the  same 
pen,  —  Days  in  Clover,  Fresh  Woods,  By 
Meadow  and  Stream.  It  is  no  secret,  I  believe, 
that  the  author  is  Mr.  Edward  Marston,  the 
senior  member  of  a  London  publishing-house. 
But  he  still  clings  to  his  retiring  pen-name  of 
"  The  Amateur  Angler,"  and  represents  him 
self,  by  a  graceful  fiction,  as  all  unskilled  in  the 
art.  An  instance  of  similar  modesty  is  found 
in  Mr.  Andrew  Lang,  who  entitles  the  first  chap 
ter  of  his  delightful  Angling  Sketches  (without 
which  no  fisherman's  library  is  complete),  "  Con 
fessions  of  a  Duffer."  This  an  engaging  liberty 
which  no  one  else  would  dare  to  take. 

The  best  English  fish-story  pure  and  simple, 
that  I  know,  is  "  Crocker's  Hole,"  by  R.  D. 
Blackmore,  the  creator  of  Lorna  Doone. 

Let  us  turn  now  to  American  books  about 
angling.  Of  these  the  merciful  dispensations  of 
Providence  have  brought  forth  no  small  store 
since  Mr.  William  Andrew  Chatto  made  the 
ill-natured  remark  which  is  pilloried  at  the  head 
of  this  chapter.  By  the  way,  it  seems  that 
Mr.  Chatto  had  never  heard  of  "  The  Schuylkill 
Fishing  Company,"  which  was  founded  on  that 
romantic  stream  near  Philadelphia  in  1732,  nor 
seen  the  Authentic  Historical  Memoir  of  that 
celebrated  and  amusing  society. 
141 


FISHING  IN  BOOKS 

I  am  sorry  for  the  man  who  cannot  find 
pleasure  in  reading  the  appendix  of  The  Amer 
ican  Angler's  Book,  by  Thaddeus  Norris  ;  or 
the  discursive  pages  of  Frank  Forester's  Fish 
and  Fishing  ;  or  the  introduction  and  notes  of 
that  unexcelled  edition  of  Walton  which  was 
made  by  the  Reverend  Doctor  George  W. 
Bethune  ;  or  Superior  Fishing  and  Game  Fish 
of  the  North,  by  Mr.  Robert  B.  Roosevelt ;  or 
HenshalFs  Book  of  the  Black  Bass  ;  or  the 
admirable  digressions  of  Mr.  Henry  P.  Wells, 
in  his  Fly-Rods  and  Fly -Tackle,  and  The 
American  Salmon  Angler.  Dr.  William  C. 
Prime  has  never  put  his  profound  knowledge  of 
the  art  of  angling  into  a  manual  of  technical 
instruction ;  but  he  has  written  of  the  delights 
of  the  sport  in  Owl  Creek  Letters,  and  in  / 
Go  A-Fishing,  and  in  some  of  the  chapters  of 
Along  New  England  Roads  and  Among  New 
England  Hills,  with  a  persuasive  skill  that 
has  created  many  new  anglers,  and  made  many 
old  ones  grateful.  It  is  a  fitting  coincidence  of 
heredity  that  his  niece,  Mrs.  Annie  Trumbull 
Slosson,  is  the  author  of  the  most  tender  and 
pathetic  of  all  angling  stories,  Fishin  Jimmy. 

BUT  it  is  not  only  in  books  written  altogether 
from  his  peculiar  point  of  view  and  to  humour 
his  harmless  insanity,  that  the  angler  may  find 
142 


FISHING  IN  BOOKS 

pleasant  reading  about  his  favourite  pastime. 
There  are  excellent  bits  of  fishing  scattered  all 
through  the  field  of  good  literature.  It  seems 
as  if  almost  all  the  men  who  could  write  well 
had  a  friendly  feeling  for  the  contemplative 
sport. 

Plutarch,  in  The  Lives  of  the  Noble  Gre 
cians  and  Romans,  tells  a  capital  fish-story  of 
the  manner  in  which  the  Egyptian  Cleopatra 
fooled  that  far-famed  Roman  wight,  Marc  An 
tony,  when  they  were  angling  together  on  the 
Nile.  As  I  recall  it,  from  a  perusal  in  early 
boyhood,  Antony  was  having  very  bad  luck  in 
deed  ;  in  fact  he  had  taken  nothing,  and  was 
sadly  put  out  about  it.  Cleopatra,  thinking  to 
get  a  rise  out  of  him,  secretly  told  one  of  her 
attendants  to  dive  over  the  opposite  side  of  the 
barge  and  fasten  a  salt  fish  to  the  Roman  gen 
eral's  hook.  The  attendant  was  much  pleased 
with  this  commission,  and,  having  executed  it, 
proceeded  to  add  a  fine  stroke  of  his  own ;  for 
when  he  had  made  the  fish  fast  on  the  hook,  he 
gave  a  great  pull  to  the  line  and  held  on  tightly. 
Antony  was  much  excited  and  began  to  haul 
violently  at  his  tackle. 

"  By  Jupiter  !  "  he  exclaimed,  "  it  was  long 
in  coming,  but  I  have  a  colossal  bite  now." 

"  Have  a  care,"  said  Cleopatra,  laughing  be 
hind  her  sunshade,  "or  he  will  drag  you  into 
143 


FISHING  IN  BOOKS 

the  water.  You  must  give  him  line  when  he 
pulls  hard." 

"Not  a  denarius  will  I  give!"  rudely  re 
sponded  Antony.  "  I  mean  to  have  this  hali 
but  or  Hades !  " 

At  this  moment  the  man  under  the  boat,  being 
out  of  breath,  let  the  line  go,  and  Antony,  fall 
ing  backward,  drew  up  the  salted  herring. 

"  Take  that  fish  off  the  hook,  Palinurus,"  he 
proudly  said.  "  It  is  not  as  large  as  I  thought, 
but  it  looks  like  the  oldest  one  that  has  been 
caught  to-day." 

Such,  in  effect,  is  the  tale  narrated  by  the 
veracious  Plutarch.  And  if  any  careful  critic 
wishes  to  verify  my  quotation  from  memory,  he 
may  compare  it  with  the  proper  page  of  Lang- 
horne's  translation ;  I  think  it  is  in  the  second 
volume,  near  the  end. 

Sir  Walter  Scott,  who  once  described  himself 
as 

"  No  fisher, 
But  a  well-wisher 
To  the  game," 

has  an  amusing  passage  of  angling  in  the  third 
chapter  of  Redgauntlet.  Darsie  Latimer  is  re 
lating  his  adventures  in  Dumfriesshire.  "  By 
the  way,"  says  he,  "  old  Cotton's  instructions,  by 
which  I  hoped  to  qualify  myself  for  the  gentle 
society  of  anglers,  are  not  worth  a  farthing  for 
144 


FISHING  IN  BOOKS 

this  meridian.  I  learned  this  by  mere  accident, 
after  I  had  waited  four  mortal  hours.  I  shall 
never  forget  an  impudent  urchin,  a  cowherd, 
about  twelve  years  old,  without  either  brogue 
or  bonnet,  barelegged,  with  a  very  indifferent 
pair  of  breeches,  —  how  the  villain  grinned  in 
scorn  at  my  landing-net,  my  plummet,  and  the 
gorgeous  jury  of  flies  which  I  had  assembled  to 
destroy  all  the  fish  in  the  river.  I  was  induced 
at  last  to  lend  the  rod  to  the  sneering  scoundrel, 
to  see  what  he  would  make  of  it ;  and  he  not 
only  half -filled  my  basket  in  an  hour,  but  liter 
ally  taught  me  to  kill  two  trouts  with  my  own 
hand." 

Thus  ancient  and  well-authenticated  is  the 
superstition  of  the  angling  powers  of  the  bare 
footed  country-boy,  —  in  fiction. 

Sir  Edward  Bulwer  Lytton,  in  that  valuable 
but  over-capitalized  book,  My  Novel,  makes  use 
of  Fishing  for  Allegorical  Purposes.  The  epi 
sode  of  John  Burley  and  the  One-eyed  Perch 
not  only  points  a  Moral  but  adorns  the  Tale. 

In  the  works  of  R.  D.  Blackmore,  angling 
plays  a  less  instructive  but  a  pleasanter  part. 
It  is  closely  interwoven  with  love.  There  is  a 
magical  description  of  trout-fishing  on  a  mea 
dow-brook  in  Alice  Lorraine.  And  who  that 
has  read  Lorna  Doone,  (pity  for  the  man  or 
woman  that  knows  not  the  delight  of  that 
145 


FISHING  IN  BOOKS 

book !)  can  ever  forget  how  young  John  Ridd 
dared  his  way  up  the  gliddery  water-slide,  after 
loaches,  and  found  Lorna  in  a  fair  green  mea 
dow,  adorned  with  flowers,  at  the  top  of  the 
brook  ? 

I  made  a  little  journey  into  the  Doone  Coun 
try  once,  just  to  see  that  brook  and  to  fish  in  it. 
The  stream  looked  smaller,  and  the  water-slide 
less  terrible,  than  they  seemed  in  the  book. 
But  it  was  a  mighty  pretty  place  after  all ;  and 
I  suppose  that  even  John  Ridd,  when  he  came 
back  to  it  in  after  years,  found  it  shrunken  a 
little. 

All  the  streams  were  larger  in  our  boyhood 
than  they  are  now,  except,  perhaps,  that  which 
flows  from  the  sweetest  spring  of  all,  the  foun 
tain  of  love,  which  John  Ridd  discovered  be 
side  the  Bagworthy  River,  —  and  I,  on  the  wil 
low-shaded  banks  of  the  Patapsco,  where  the 
Baltimore  girls  fish  for  gudgeons,  —  and  you? 
Come,  gentle  reader,  is  there  no  stream  whose 
name  is  musical  to  you,  because  of  a  hidden 
spring  of  love  that  you  once  found  on  its  shore  ? 
The  waters  of  that  fountain  never  fail,  and  in 
them  alone  we  taste  the  undiminished  fulness  of 
immortal  youth. 

The  stories  of  William  Black  are  enlivened 
with  fish,  and  he  knew,  bettor  than  most  men, 
how  they  should  be  taken.  Whenever  he  wanted 
146 


Lorna  Doone's  Brook. 


FISHING  IN  BOOKS 

to  get  two  young  people  engaged  to  each  other, 
all  other  devices  failing,  he  sent  them  out  to 
angle  together.  If  it  had  not  been  for  fishing, 
everything  in  A  Princess  of  Thule  and  White 
Heather  would  have  gone  wrong. 

But  even  men  who  have  been  disappointed  in 
love  may  angle  for  solace  or  diversion.  I  have 
known  some  old  bachelors  who  fished  excel 
lently  well ;  and  others  I  have  known  who  could 
find,  and  give,  much  pleasure  in  a  day  on  the 
stream,  though  they  had  no  skill  in  the  sport. 
Of  this  class  was  Washington  Irving,  with  an 
extract  from  whose  Sketch  Boole,  I  will  bring 
this  rambling  dissertation  to  an  end. 

"  Our  first  essay,"  says  he,  "  was  along  a 
mountain  brook  among  the  highlands  of  the 
Hudson ;  a  most  unfortunate  place  for  the  execu 
tion  of  those  piscatory  tactics  which  had  been  in 
vented  along  the  velvet  margins  of  quiet  English 
rivulets.  It  was  one  of  those  wild  streams  that 
lavish,  among  our  romantic  solitudes,  unheeded 
beauties  enough  to  fill  the  sketch-book  of  a 
hunter  of  the  picturesque.  Sometimes  it  would 
leap  down  rocky  shelves,  making  small  cascades, 
over  which  the  trees  threw  their  broad  balan 
cing  sprays,  and  long  nameless  weeds  hung  in 
fringes  from  the  impending  banks,  dripping 
with  diamond  drops.  Sometimes  it  would  brawl 
and  fret  along  a  ravine  in  the  matted  shade  of 
147 


FISHING  IN  BOOKS 

a  forest,  filling  it  with  murmurs ;  and,  after  this 
termagant  career,  would  steal  forth  into  open 
day,  with  the  most  placid,  demure  face  imagin 
able  ;  as  I  have  seen  some  pestilent  shrew  of  a 
housewife,  after  filling  her  home  with  uproar 
and  ill-humour,  come  dimpling  out  of  doors, 
swimming  and  courtesying,  and  smiling  upon 
all  the  world. 

"How  smoothly  would  this  vagrant  brook 
glide,  at  such  times,  through  some  bosom  of 
green  meadow-land  among  the  mountains,  where 
the  quiet  was  only  interrupted  by  the  occasional 
tinkling  of  a  bell  from  the  lazy  cattle  among 
the  clover,  or  the  sound  of  a  woodcutter's  axe 
from  the  neighbouring  forest ! 

"  For  my  part,  I  was  always  a  bungler  at  all 
kinds  of  sport  that  required  either  patience  or 
adroitness,  and  had  not  angled  above  half  an 
hour  before  I  had  completely  '  satisfied  the  sen 
timent,'  and  convinced  myself  of  the  truth  of 
Izaak  Walton's  opinion,  that  angling  is  some 
thing  like  poetry,  —  a  man  must  be  born  to  it. 
I  hooked  myself  instead  of  the  fish ;  tangled  my 
line  in  every  tree ;  lost  my  bait ;  broke  my  rod ; 
until  I  gave  up  the  attempt  in  despair,  and 
passed  the  day  under  the  trees,  reading  old 
Izaak,  satisfied  that  it  was  his  fascinating  vein 
of  honest  simplicity  and  rural  feeling  that  had 
bewitched  me,  and  not  the  passion  for  angling." 
148 


VIII 
A  NORWEGIAN  HONEYMOON 


"  The  best  rose-bush,  after  all,  is  not  that  which  has  the  fewest  thorns,  bid 
that  which  bears  the  finest  roses.'1'1  —  SOLOMON  SINGLEWITZ  :  The  Life 
of  A  daw. 


A  NORWEGIAN  HONEYMOON 


IT  was  not  all  unadulterated  sweetness,  of 
course.  There  were  enough  difficulties  in  the 
way  to  make  it  seem  desirable  ;  and  a  few  stings 
of  annoyance,  now  and  then,  lent  piquancy  to 
the  adventure.  But  a  good  memory,  in  dealing 
with  the  past,  has  the  art  of  straining  out  all 
the  beeswax  of  discomfort,  and  storing  up  little 
jars  of  pure  hydromel.  As  we  look  back  at  our 
six  weeks  in  Norway,  we  agree  that  no  period 
of  our  partnership  in  experimental  honeymoon 
ing  has  yielded  more  honey  to  the  same  amount 
of  comb. 

Several  considerations  led  us  to  the  resolve 
of  taking  our  honeymoon  experimentally  rather 
than  chronologically.  We  started  from  the  self- 
evident  proposition  that  it  ought  to  be  the  hap 
piest  time  in  married  life. 

"It   is   perfectly   ridiculous,"  said    my  lady 

Graygown,  "  to  suppose  that  a  thing  like  that 

can  be  fixed  by  the  calendar.     It  may  possibly 

fall  in  the  first  month  after  the  wedding,  but  it 

151 


A  NORWEGIAN  HONEYMOON 

is  not  likely.  Just  think  how  slightly  two  peo 
ple  know  each  other  when  they  get  married. 
They  are  in  love,  of  course,  but  that  is  not  at  all 
the  same  as  being  well  acquainted.  Sometimes 
the  more  love,  the  less  acquaintance !  And 
sometimes  the  more  acquaintance,  the  less  love ! 
Besides,  at  first  there  are  always  the  notes  of 
thanks  for  the  wedding-presents  to  be  written, 
and  the  letters  of  congratulation  to  be  answered, 
and  it  is  awfully  hard  to  make  each  one  sound 
a  little  different  from  the  others  and  perfectly 
natural.  Then,  you  know,  everybody  seems  to 
suspect  you  of  the  folly  of  being  newly  married. 
You  run  across  your  friends  everywhere,  and 
they  grin  when  they  see  you.  You  can't  help 
feeling  as  if  a  lot  of  people  were  watching  you 
through  opera-glasses,  or  taking  snap-shots  at 
you  with  a  kodak.  It  is  absurd  to  imagine  that 
the  first  month  must  be  the  real  honeymoon. 
And  just  suppose  it  were,  —  what  bad  luck  that 
would  be  !  What  would  there  be  to  look  for 
ward  to?" 

Every  word  that  fell  from  her  lips  seemed  to 
me  like  the  wisdom  of  Diotima. 

"  You  are  right,"  I  cried  ;  "  Portia  could  not 
hold  a  candle  to  you  for  clear  argument.  Be 
sides,  suppose  two  people  are  imprudent  enough 
to  get  married  in  the  first  week  of  December, 
as  we  did !  —  what  becomes  of  the  chronological 
152 


A  NORWEGIAN  HONEYMOON 

honeymoon  then?  There  is  no  fishing  in 
cember,  and  all  the  rivers  of  Paradise,  at  least 
in  our  latitude,  are  frozen  up.  No,  my  lady, 
we  will  discover  our  month  of  honey  by  the  em 
pirical  method.  Each  year  we  will  set  out  to 
gether  to  seek  it  in  a  solitude  for  two ;  and  we 
will  compare  notes  on  moons,  and  strike  the 
final  balance  when  we  are  sure  that  our  happi 
est  experiment  has  been  completed." 

We  are  not  sure  of  that,  even  yet.  We  are 
still  engaged,  as  a  committee  of  two,  in  our  phi 
losophical  investigation,  and  we  decline  to  make 
anything  but  a  report  of  progress.  We  know 
more  now  than  we  did  when  we  first  went  honey 
mooning  in  the  city  of  Washington.  For  one 
thing,  we  are  certain  that  not  even  the  far- 
famed  rosemary-fields  of  Narbonne,  or  the  fra 
grant  hillsides  of  the  Corbieres,  yield  a  sweeter 
harvest  to  the  busy-ness  of  the  bees  than  the 
Norwegian  meadows  and  mountain-slopes  yielded 
to  our  idleness  in  the  summer  of  1888. 

II 

The  rural  landscape  of  Norway,  on  the  long 
easterly  slope  that  leads  up  to  the  watershed 
among  the  mountains  of  the  western  coast,  is 
not  unlike  that  of  Vermont  or  New  Hampshire. 
The  railway  from  Christiania  to  the  Kandsf  jord 
carried  us  through  a  hilly  country  of  scattered 
153 


A  NORWEGIAN  HONEYMOON 

farms  and  villages.  Wood  played  a  prominent 
part  in  the  scenery.  There  were  dark  stretches 
of  forest  on  the  hilltops  and  in  the  valleys ;  riv 
ers  filled  with  floating  logs ;  sawmills  beside  the 
waterfalls  ;  wooden  farmhouses  painted  white ; 
and  rail-fences  around  the  fields.  The  people 
seemed  sturdy,  prosperous,  independent.  They 
had  the  familiar  habit  of  coming  down  to  the 
station  to  see  the  train  arrive  and  depart.  We 
might  have  fancied  ourselves  on  a  journey 
through  the  Connecticut  valley,  if  it  had  not 
been  for  the  soft  sing-song  of  the  Norwegian 
speech  and  the  uniform  politeness  of  the  railway 
officials. 

What  a  room  that  was  in  the  inn  at  Kands- 
f  jord  where  we  spent  our  first  night  out !  Vast, 
bare,  primitive,  with  eight  windows  to  admit  the 
persistent  nocturnal  twilight ;  a  sea-like  floor  of 
blue-painted  boards,  unbroken  by  a  single  island 
of  carpet ;  and  a  castellated  stove  in  one  corner : 
an  apartment  for  giants,  with  two  little  beds 
for  dwarfs  on  opposite  shores  of  the  ocean. 
There  was  no  telephone ;  so  we  arranged  a  sys 
tem  of  communication  with  a  fishing-line,  to 
make  sure  that  the  sleepy  partner  should  be 
awake  in  time  for  the  early  boat  in  the  morn 
ing. 

The  journey  up  the  lake  took  seven  hours, 
and  reminded  us  of  a  voyage  on  Lake  George ; 
154 


A  NORWEGIAN  HONEYMOON 

placid,  picturesque,  and  pervaded  by  summer 
boarders.  Somewhere  on  the  way  we  had  lunch, 
and  were  well  fortified  to  take  the  road  when 
the  steamboat  landed  us  at  Odnaes,  at  the  head 
of  the  lake,  about  two  o'clock  in  the  afternoon. 

There  are  several  methods  in  which  you  may 
drive  through  Norway.  The  government  main 
tains  posting-stations  at  the  farms  along  the 
main  travelled  highways,  where  you  can  hire 
horses  and  carriages  of  various  kinds.  There 
are  also  English  tourist  agencies  which  make  a 
business  of  providing  travellers  with  complete 
transportation.  You  may  try  either  of  these 
methods  alone,  or  you  may  make  a  judicious 
mixture. 

Thus,  by  an  application  of  the  theory  of  per 
mutations  and  combinations,  you  have  your 
choice  among  four  ways  of  accomplishing  a 
driving-tour.  First,  you  may  engage  a  carriage 
and  pair,  with  a  driver,  from  one  of  the  tourist 
agencies,  and  roll  through  your  journey  in  sed 
entary  ease,  provided  your  horses  do  not  go 
lame  or  give  out.  Second,  you  may  rely  alto 
gether  upon  the  posting-stations  to  send  you  on 
your  journey ;  and  this  is  a  very  pleasant,  lively 
way,  provided  there  is  not  a  crowd  of  travellers 
on  the  road  before  you,  who  take  up  all  the 
comfortable  conveyances  and  leave  you  nothing 
but  a  jolting  cart  or  a  ramshackle  Jcariol  of 
155 


A  NORWEGIAN  HONEYMOON 

the  time  of  St.  Olaf.  Third,  you  may  rent  an 
easy-riding  vehicle  (by  choice  a  well-hung*  gig) 
for  the  entire  trip,  and  change  ponies  at  the 
stations  as  you  drive  along  ;  this  is  the  safest 
way.  The  fourth  method  is  to  hire  your  horse 
flesh  at  the  beginning  for  the  whole  journey,  and 
pick  up  your  vehicles  from  place  to  place.  This 
method  is  theoretically  possible,  but  I  do  not 
know  any  one  who  has  tried  it. 

Our  gig  was  waiting  for  us  at  Odnaes.  There 
was  a  brisk  little  mouse-coloured  pony  in  the 
shafts  ;  and  it  took  but  a  moment  to  strap  our 
leather  portmanteau  on  the  board  at  the  back, 
perch  the  postboy  on  top  of  it,  and  set  out  for 
our  first  experience  of  a  Norwegian  driving- 
tour. 

The  road  at  first  was  level  and  easy  ;  and  we 
bowled  along  smoothly  through  the  valley  of  the 
Etnaelv,  among  drooping  birch-trees  and  green 
fields  where  the  larks  were  singing.  At  Tom- 
levolden,  ten  miles  farther  on,  we  reached  the 
first  station,  a  comfortable  old  farmhouse,  with 
a  great  array  of  wooden  outbuildings.  Here  we 
had  a  chance  to  try  our  luck  with  the  Norwegian 
language  in  demanding  "  en  hest,  saa  straxt  som 
muligt.  This  was  what  the  guide-book  told  us 
to  say  when  we  wanted  a  horse. 

There  is  great  fun  in  making  a  random  cast 
on  the  surface  of  a  strange  language.  You  can- 
156 


A   NORWEGIAN  HONEYMOON 

not  tell  what  will  come  up.  It  is  like  an  experi 
ment  in  witchcraft.  We  should  not  have  been 
at  all  surprised,  I  must  confess,  if  our  prelim 
inary  incantation  had  brought  forth  a  cow  or  a 
basket  of  eggs. 

But  the  good  people  seemed  to  divine  our  in 
tentions  ;  and  while  we  were  waiting  for  one  of 
the  stable-boys  to  catch  and  harness  the  new 
horse,  a  yellow-haired  maiden  inquired,  in  very 
fair  English,  if  we  would  not  be  pleased  to  have 
a  cup  of  tea  and  some  butter-bread ;  which  we 
did  with  great  comfort. 

The  Skydsgut,  or  so-called  postboy,  for  the 
next  stage  of  the  journey,  was  a  full-grown  man 
of  considerable  weight.  As  he  climbed  to  his 
perch  on  our  portmanteau,  my  lady  Graygown 
congratulated  me  on  the  prudence  which  had 
provided  that  one  side  of  that  receptacle  should 
be  of  an  inflexible  stiffness,  quite  incapable  of 
being  crushed  ;  otherwise,  asked  she,  what  would 
have  become  of  her  Sunday  frock  under  the 
pressure  of  this  stern  necessity  of  a  postboy  ? 

But  I  think  we  should  not  have  cared  very 
much  if  all  our  luggage  had  been  smashed  on 
this  journey,  for  the  road  now  began  to  ascend, 
and  the  views  over  the  Etnadal,  with  its  wind 
ing  river,  were  of  a  breadth  and  sweetness  most 
consoling.  Up  and  up  we  went,  curving  in  and 
out  through  the  forest,  crossing  wild  ravines 
157 


A  NORWEGIAN  HONEYMOON 

and  shadowy  dells,  looking  back  at  every  turn 
on  the  wide  landscape  bathed  in  golden  light. 
At  the  station  of  Sveen,  where  we  changed  horse 
and  postboy  again,  it  was  already  evening.  The 
sun  was  down,  but  the  mystical  radiance  of  the 
northern  twilight  illumined  the  sky.  The  dark 
fir-woods  spread  around  us,  and  their  odour- 
ous  breath  was  diffused  through  the  cool,  still 
air.  We  were  crossing  the  level  summit  of  the 
plateau,  twenty-three  hundred  feet  above  the 
sea.  Two  tiny  woodland  lakes  gleamed  out 
among  the  trees.  Then  the  road  began  to  slope 
gently  towards  the  west,  and  emerged  suddenly 
on  the  edge  of  the  forest,  looking  out  over  the 
long,  lovely  vale  of  Valders,  with  snow-touched 
mountains  on  the  horizon,  and  the  river  Baegna 
shimmering  along  its  bed,  a  thousand  feet  be 
low  us. 

What  a  heart-enlarging  outlook  !  What  a 
keen  joy  of  motion,  as  the  wheels  rolled  down  the 
long  incline,  and  the  sure-footed  pony  swung 
between  the  shafts  and  rattled  his  hoofs  merrily 
on  the  hard  road  !  What  long,  deep  breaths  of 
silent  pleasure  in  the  crisp  night  air !  What 
wondrous  mingling  of  lights  in  the  afterglow 
of  sunset,  and  the  primrose  bloom  of  the  first 
stars,  and  faint  foregleamings  of  the  rising  moon 
creeping  over  the  hill  behind  us  !  What  per 
fection  of  companionship  without  words,  as  we 
158 


A  NORWEGIAN  HONEYMOON 

rode  together  through  a  strange  land,  along  the 
edge  of  the  dark ! 

When  we  finished  the  thirty-fifth  mile,  and 
drew  up  in  the  courtyard  of  the  station  at  Fry- 
denlund,  Graygown  sprang  out,  with  a  little 
sigh  of  regret. 

"  Is  it  last  night,"  she  cried,  "  or  to-morrow 
morning  ?  I  have  n't  the  least  idea  what  time 
it  is ;  it  seems  as  if  we  had  been  travelling  in 
eternity." 

"  It  is  just  ten  o'clock,"  I  answered,  "  and  the 
landlord  says  there  will  be  a  hot  supper  of  trout 
ready  for  us  in  five  minutes." 

It  would  be  vain  to  attempt  to  give  a  daily 
record  of  the  whole  journey  in  which  we  made 
this  fair  beginning.  It  was  a  most  idle  and  un 
systematic  pilgrimage.  We  wandered  up  and 
down,  and  turned  aside  when  fancy  beckoned. 
Sometimes  we  hurried  on  as  fast  as  the  horses 
would  carry  us,  driving  sixty  or  seventy  miles  a 
day ;  sometimes  we  loitered  and  dawdled,  as  if 
we  did  not  care  whether  we  got  anywhere  or 
not.  If  a  place  pleased  us,  we  stayed  and  tried 
the  fishing.  If  we  were  tired  of  driving,  we 
took  to  the  water,  and  travelled  by  steamer  along 
a  fjord,  or  hired  a  rowboat  to  cross  from  point 
to  point.  One  day  we  would  be  in  a  good  little 
hotel,  with  polyglot  guests,  and  serving-maids  in 
stagey  Norse  costumes,  —  like  the  famous  inn  at 
159 


A  NORWEGIAN  HONEYMOON 

Stalheim,  whicli  commands  the  amazing  pano 
rama  of  the  Naerodal.  Another  day  we  would 
lodge  in  a  plain  farmhouse  like  the  station  at 
Nedre  Vasenden,  where  eggs  and  fish  were  the 
staples  of  diet,  and  the  farmer's  daughter  wore 
the  picturesque  peasants'  dress,  with  its  tall  cap, 
without  any  dramatic  airs.  Lakes  and  rivers, 
precipices  and  gorges,  waterfalls  and  glaciers 
and  snowy  mountains  were  our  daily  repast. 
We  drove  over  five  hundred  miles  in  various 
kinds  of  open  wagons,  kariols  for  one,  and  stol- 
kjaerres  for  two,  after  we  had  left  our  com 
fortable  gig  behind  us.  We  saw  the  ancient 
dragon-gabled  church  of  Burgund  ;  and  the  de 
lightful,  showery  town  of  Bergen ;  and  the 
gloomy  cliffs  of  the  Geir anger-Fjord  laced  with 
filmy  cataracts ;  and  the  bewitched  crags  of 
the  Eomsdal ;  and  the  wide,  desolate  landscape 
of  Jerkin ;  and  a  hundred  other  unforgotten 
scenes.  Somehow  or  other  we  went,  (around 
and  about,  and  up  and  down,  now  on  wheels, 
and  now  on  foot,  and  now  in  a  boat,)  all  the 
way  from  Christiania  to  Throndhjem.  My  lady 
Graygown  could  give  you  the  exact  itinerary, 
for  she  has  been  well  brought  up,  and  always 
keeps  a  diary.  All  I  know  is,  that  we  set  out 
from  one  city  and  arrived  at  the  other,  and 
we  gathered  by  the  way  a  collection  of  instanta 
neous  photographs.  I  am  going  to  turn  them 
160 


o 


A  NORWEGIAN  HONEYMOON 

over  now,  and  pick  out  a  few  of  the  clearest 
pictures. 

in 

Here  is  the  bridge  over  the  Naeselv  at  Fa- 
gernaes.  Just  below  it  is  a  good  pool  for  trout, 
but  the  river  is  broad  and  deep  and  swift.  It 
is  difficult  wading  to  get  out  within  reach  of 
the  fish.  I  have  taken  half  a  dozen  small  ones 
and  come  to  the  end  of  my  cast.  There  is  a 
big  one  lying  out  in  the  middle  of  the  river,  I 
am  sure.  But  the  water  already  rises  to  my 
hips ;  another  step  will  bring  it  over  the  top  of 
my  waders,  and  send  me  downstream  feet  up 
permost. 

"  Take  care  !  "  cries  Gray  gown  from  the  grassy 
bank,  where  she  sits  placidly  crocheting  some 
mysterious  fabric  of  white  yarn. 

She  does  not  see  the  large  rock  lying  at  the 
bottom  of  the  river  just  beyond  me.  If  I  can 
step  on  that,  and  stand  there  without  being 
swept  away,  I  can  reach  the  mid-current  with 
my  flies.  It  is  a  long  stride  and  a  slippery 
foothold,  but  by  good  luck  "  the  last  step  which 
costs"  is  accomplished.  The  tiny  black  and 
orange  hackle  goes  curling  out  over  the  stream, 
lights  softly,  and  swings  around  with  the  cur 
rent,  folding  and  expanding  its  feathers  as  if  it 
were  alive.  The  big  trout  takes  it  promptly  the 
161 


A  NORWEGIAN  HONEYMOON 

instant  it  passes  over  him ;  and  I  play  him 
and  net  him  without  moving  from  my  perilous 
perch. 

Graygown  waves  her  crochet- work  like  a  flag, 
"  Bravo  !  "  she  cries.  "  That 's  a  beauty,  nearly 
two  pounds  !  But  do  be  careful  about  coming- 
back  ;  you  are  not  good  enough  to  take  any 
risks  yet." 

The  station  at  Skogstad  is  a  solitary  farm 
house  lying  far  up  on  the  bare  hillside,  with  its 
barns  and  out-buildings  grouped  around  a  cen 
tral  courtyard,  like  a  rude  fortress.  The  river 
travels  along  the  valley  below,  now  wrestling  its 
way  through  a  narrow  passage  among  the  rocks, 
now  spreading  out  at  leisure  in  a  green  meadow. 
As  we  cross  the  bridge,  the  crystal  water  is 
changed  to  opal  by  the  sunset  glow,  and  a  gen 
tle  breeze  ruffles  the  long  pools,  and  the  trout 
are  rising  freely.  It  is  the  perfect  hour  for  fish 
ing.  Would  Graygown  dare  to  drive  on  alone 
to  the  gate  of  the  fortress,  and  blow  upon  the 
long  horn  which  doubtless  hangs  beside  it,  and 
demand  admittance  and  a  lodging,  "  in  the 
name  of  the  great  Jehovah  and  the  Continental 
Congress,"  —  while  I  angle  down  the  river  a 
mile  or  so  ? 

Certainly  she  would.  What  door  is  there  in 
Europe  at  which  the  American  girl  is  afraid  to 
162 


A  NORWEGIAN  HONEYMOON 

knock?  "But  wait  a  moment.  How  do  you 
ask  for  fried  chicken  and  pancakes  in  Nor 
wegian  ?  Jelling  og  Pandekage,  ?  How  fierce 
it  sounds!  All  right  now.  Eun  along  and 
fish." 

The  river  welcomes  me  like  an  old  friend. 
The  time  that  it  sings  is  the  same  that  the 
flowing  water  repeats  all  around  the  world. 
Not  otherwise  do  the  lively  rapids  carry  the 
familiar  air,  and  the  larger  falls  drone  out  a 
burly  bass,  along  the  west  branch  of  the  Penob- 
scot,  or  down  the  valley  of  the  Bouquet.  But 
here  there  are  no  forests  to  conceal  the  course 
of  the  stream.  It  lies  as  free  to  the  view  as  a 
child's  thought.  As  I  follow  on  from  pool  to 
pool,  picking  out  a  good  trout  here  and  there, 
now  from  a  rocky  corner  edged  with  foam,  now 
from  a  swift  gravelly  run,  now  from  a  snug 
hiding-place  that  the  current  has  hollowed  out 
beneath  the  bank,  all  the  way  I  can  see  the 
fortress  far  above  me  on  the  hillside. 

I  am  as  sure  that  it  has  already  surrendered 
to  Graygown  as  if  I  could  discern  her  white 
banner  of  crochet-work  floating  from  the  battle 
ments. 

Just   before   dark,  I  climb    the   hill  with   a 

heavy  basket  of  fish.     The  castle  gate  is  open. 

The  scent  of  chicken  and  pancakes  salutes  the 

weary  pilgrim.    In  a  cosy  little  parlour,  adorned 

163 


A  NOEWEGIAN  HONEYMOON 

with  fluffy  mats  and  pictures  framed  in  pine- 
cones,  lit  by  a  hanging  lamp  with  glass  pend 
ants,  sits  the  mistress  of  the  occasion,  calmly 
triumphant  and  plying  her  crochet-needle. 

There  is  something  mysterious  about  a  wo 
man's  fancy-work.  It  seems  to  have  all  the 
soothing  charm  of  the  tobacco-plant,  without 
its  inconveniences.  Just  to  see  her  tranquil 
lity,  while  she  relaxes  her  mind  and  busies  her 
fingers  with  a  bit  of  tatting  or  embroidery  or 
crochet,  gives  me  a  sense  of  being  domesticated, 
a  "  homey  "  feeling,  anywhere  in  the  wide  world. 

If  you  ever  go  to  Norway,  you  must  be  sure 
to  see  the  Loenvand.  You  can  set  out  from  the 
comfortable  hotel  at  Faleide,  go  up  the  Indvik 
Fjord  in  a  rowboat,  cross  over  a  two- mile  hill 
on  foot  or  by  carriage,  spend  a  happy  day  on 
the  lake,  and  return  to  your  inn  in  time  for  a 
late  supper.  The  lake  is  perhaps  the  most  beau 
tiful  in  Norway.  Long  and  narrow,  it  lies  like 
a  priceless  emerald  of  palest  green,  hidden  and 
guarded  by  jealous  mountains.  It  is  fed  by 
huge  glaciers,  which  hang  over  the  shoulders  of 
the  hills  like  ragged  cloaks  of  ice. 

As  we  row  along  the  shore,  trolling  in  vain 

for  the   trout  that   live  in   the  ice-cold  water, 

fragments   of   the     tattered    cloth-of-silver   far 

above  us,  on  the  opposite  side,  are  loosened  by 

164 


A  NOEWEGIAN  HONEYMOON 

the  touch  of  the  summer  sun,  and  fall  from  the 
precipice.  They  drift  downward,  at  first,  as 
noiselessly  as  thistledowns ;  then  they  strike  the 
rocks  and  come  crashing  towards  the  lake  with 
the  hollow  roar  of  an  avalanche. 

At  the  head  of  the  lake  we  find  ourselves  in 
an  enormous  amphitheatre  of  mountains.  Gla 
ciers  are  peering  down  upon  us.  Snow-fields 
glare  at  us  with  glistening  eyes.  Black  crags 
seem  to  bend  above  us  with  an  eternal  frown. 
Streamers  of  foam  float  from  the  forehead  of 
the  hills  and  the  lips  of  the  dark  ravines.  But 
there  is  a  little  river  of  cold,  pure  water  flowing 
from  one  of  the  rivers  of  ice,  and  a  pleasant 
shelter  of  young  trees  and  bushes  growing 
among  the  debris  of  shattered  rocks ;  and  there 
we  build  our  camp-fire  and  eat  our  lunch. 

Hunger  is  a  most  impudent  appetite.  It 
makes  a  man  forget  all  the  proprieties.  What 
place  is  there  so  lofty,  so  awful,  that  he  will  not 
dare  to  sit  down  in  it  and  partake  of  food? 
Even  on  the  side  of  Mount  Sinai,  the  elders  of 
Israel  spread  their  out-of-door  table,  "  and  did 
eat  and  drink." 

I  see  the  Tarn  of  the  Elk  at  this  moment, 

just  as  it  looked  in  the  clear  sunlight  of  that 

August  afternoon,  ten  years  ago.     Far  down  in 

a  hollow  of  the  desolate   hills  it  nestles,  four 

165 


A  NORWEGIAN  HONEYMOON 

thousand  feet  above  the  sea.  The  moorland 
trail  hangs  high  above  it,  and,  though  it  is  a 
mile  away,  every  curve  of  the  treeless  shore, 
every  shoal  and  reef  in  the  light  green  water 
is  clearly  visible.  With  a  powerful  field-glass 
one  can  almost  see  the  large  trout  for  which  the 
pond  is  famous. 

The  shelter-hut  on  the  bank  is  built  of  rough 
gray  stones,  and  the  roof  is  leaky  to  the  light 
as  well  as  to  the  weather.  But  there  are  two 
beds  in  it,  one  for  my  guide  and  one  for  me ; 
and  a  practicable  fireplace,  which  is  soon  filled 
with  a  blaze  of  comfort.  There  is  also  a  random 
library  of  novels,  which  former  fishermen  have 
thoughtfully  left  behind  them.  I  like  strong 
reading  in  the  wilderness.  Give  me  a  story 
with  plenty  of  danger  and  wholesome  fighting  in 
it, — "The  Three  Musketeers,"  or  "Treasure 
Island,"  or  "The  Afghan's  Knife."  Intricate 
studies  of  social  dilemmas  and  tales  of  mild 
philandering  seem  bloodless  and  insipid. 

The  trout  in  the  Tarn  of  the  Elk  are  large, 
undoubtedly,  but  they  are  also  few  in  number 
and  shy  in  disposition.  Either  some  of  the 
peasants  have  been  fishing  over  them  with  the 
deadly  "  otter,"  or  else  they  belong  to  that  va 
riety  of  the  trout  family  known  as  Trutta 
damnosa,  —  the  species  which  you  can  see  but 
cannot  take.  We  watched  these  aggravating 
166 


A  NORWEGIAN  HONEYMOON 

fish  playing  on  the  surface  at  sunset ;  we  saw 
them  dart  beneath  our  boat  in  the  early  morn 
ing  ;  but  not  until  a  driving  snowstorm  set  in, 
about  noon  of  the  second  day,  did  we  succeed 
in  persuading  any  of  them  to  take  the  fly. 
Then  they  rose,  for  a  couple  of  hours,  with  ami 
able  perversity.  I  caught  five,  weighing  be 
tween  two  and  four  pounds  each,  and  stopped 
because  my  hands  were  so  numb  that  I  could 
cast  no  longer. 

Now  for  a  long  tramp  over  the  hills  and  home. 
Yes,  home  ;  for  yonder  in  the  white  house  at 
Drivstuen,  with  fuchsias  and  geraniums  bloom 
ing  in  the  windows,  and  a  pretty,  friendly  Norse 
girl  to  keep  her  company,  my  lady  is  waiting  for 
me.  See,  she  comes  running  out  to  the  door, 
in  the  gathering  dusk,  with  a  red  flower  in  her 
hair,  and  hails  me  with  the  fisherman's  greeting, 
What  luck? 

Well,  this  luck,  at  all  events !  I  can  show 
you  a  few  good  fish,  and  sit  down  with  you  to 
a  supper  of  reindeer- venison  and  a  quiet  even 
ing  of  music  and  talk. 

Shall  I  forget  thee,  hospitable  Stuefloten, 
dearest  to  our  memory  of  all  the  rustic  stations 
in  Norway  ?  There  are  no  stars  beside  thy 
name  in  the  pages  of  Baedeker.  But  in  the 
book  of  our  hearts  a  whole  constellation  is  thine. 
167 


A  NORWEGIAN  HONEYMOON 

The  long,  low,  white  farmhouse  stands  on  a 
green  hill  at  the  head  of  the  Eomsdal.  A 
flourishing  crop  of  grass  and  flowers  grows  on 
the  stable-roof,  and  there  is  a  little  belfry  with 
a  big  bell  to  call  the  labourers  home  from  the 
fields.  In  the  corner  of  the  living-room  of  the 
old  house  there  is  a  broad  fireplace  built  across 
the  angle.  Curious  cupboards  are  tucked  away 
everywhere.  The  long  table  in  the  dining-room 
groans  thrice  a  day  with  generous  fare.  There 
are  as  many  kinds  of  hot  bread  as  in  a  Virginia 
country-house;  the  cream  is  thick  enough  to 
make  a  spoon  stand  up  in  amazement ;  once,  at 
dinner,  we  sat  embarrassed  before  six  different 
varieties  of  pudding. 

In  the  evening,  when  the  saffron  light  is  be 
ginning  to  fade,  we  go  out  and  walk  in  the  road 
before  the  house,  looking  down  the  long  mys 
tical  vale  of  the  Rauma,  or  up  to  the  purple 
western  hills  from  which  the  clear  streams  of 
the  Ulvaa  flow  to  meet  us. 

Above  Stuefloten  the  Rauma  lingers  and 
meanders  through  a  smoother  and  more  open 
valley,  with  broad  beds  of  gravel  and  flowery 
meadows.  Here  the  trout  and  grayling  grow 
fat  and  lusty,  and  here  we  angle  for  them,  day 
after  day,  in  water  so  crystalline  that  when  one 
steps  into  the  stream  one  hardly  knows  whether 
to  expect  a  depth  of  six  inches  or  six  feet. 
168 


A  NORWEGIAN  HONEYMOON 

Tiny  English  flies  and  leaders  of  gossamer 
are  the  tackle  for  such  water  in  midsummer. 
With  this  delicate  outfit,  and  with  a  light  hand 
and  a  long  line,  one  may  easily  outfish  the  native 
angler,  and  fill  a  twelve-pound  basket  every  fair 
day.  I  remember  an  old  Norwegian,  an  invet 
erate  fisherman,  whose  footmarks  we  saw  ahead 
of  us  on  the  stream  all  though  an  afternoon. 
Footmarks  I  call  them ;  and  so  they  were,  liter 
ally,  for  there  were  only  the  prints  of  a  single 
foot  to  be  seen  on  the  banks  of  sand,  and  be 
tween  them,  a  series  of  small,  round,  deep  holes. 

"What  kind  of  a  bird  is  that,  Frederik?" 
I  asked  my  faithful  guide. 

"  That  is  old  Pedersen,"  he  said,  "  with  his 
wooden  leg.  He  makes  a  dot  after  every  step. 
We  shall  catch  him  in  a  little  while." 

Sure  enough,  about  six  o'clock  we  saw  him 
standing  on  a  grassy  point,  hurling  his  line, 
with  a  fat  worm  on  the  end  of  it,  far  across 
the  stream,  and  letting  it  drift  down  with  the 
current.  But  the  water  was  too  fine  for  that 
style  of  fishing,  and  the  poor  old  fellow  had  but 
a  half  dozen  little  fish.  My  creel  was  already 
overflowing,  so  I  emptied  out  all  of  the  grayling 
into  his  bag,  and  went  on  up  the  river  to  com 
plete  my  tale  of  trout  before  dark. 

And  when  the  fishing  is  over,  there  is  Gray- 
gown  with  the  wagon,  waiting  at  the  appointed 
169 


A  NORWEGIAN  HONEYMOON 

place  under  the  trees,  beside  the  road.  The 
sturdy  white  pony  trots  gayly  homeward.  The 
pale  yellow  stars  blossom  out  above  the  hills 
again,*  as  they  did  on  that  first  night  when  we 
were  driving  down  into  the  Valders.  Frederik 
leans  over  the  back  of  the  seat,  telling  us  mar 
vellous  tales,  in  his  broken  English,  of  the  fish 
ing  in  a  certain  lake  among  the  mountains,  and 
of  the  reindeer-shooting  on  the  f  jeld  beyond  it. 

"  It  is  sad  that  you  go  to-morrow,"  says  he  ; 
"but  you  come  back  another  year,  I  think,  to 
fish  in  that  lake,  and  to  shoot  those  reindeer." 

Yes,  Frederik,  we  are  coming  back  to  Nor 
way  some  day,  perhaps, — who  can  tell?  It  is 
one  of  the  hundred  places  that  we  are  vaguely 
planning  to  revisit.  For,  though  we  did  not  see 
the  midnight  sun  there,  we  saw  the  honeymoon 
most  distinctly.  And  it  was  bright  enough  to 
take  pictures. 


170 


IX 

WHO   OWNS  THE  MOUNTAINS? 


'  My  heart  is  fixed  firm  and  stable  in  the  belief  that  ultimately  the  sun 
shine  and  the  summer,  the  flowers  and  the  azure  sky ,  shall  become,  as  it 
were,  interwoven  into  man's  existence-  He  shall  take  from  all  their 
beauty  and  enjoy  their  glory."  —  RICHARD  JEFFHRIES  :  The  Life  of 
the  Fields. 


WHO  OWNS  THE  MOUNTAINS? 

IT  was  the  little  lad  that  asked  the  question ; 
and  the  answer  also,  as  you  will  see,  was  mainly 
his. 

We  had  been  keeping  Sunday  afternoon  to 
gether  in  our  favourite  fashion,  following  out 
that  pleasant  text  which  tells  us  to  "  behold  the 
fowls  of  the  air."  There  is  no  injunction  of 
Holy  Writ  less  burdensome  in  acceptance,  or 
more  profitable  in  obedience,  than  this  easy  out- 
of-doors  commandment.  For  several  hours  we 
walked  in  the  way  of  this  precept,  through  the 
untangled  woods  that  lie  behind  the  Forest  Hills 
Lodge,  where  a  pair  of  pigeon-hawks  had  their 
nest ;  and  around  the  brambly  shores  of  the 
small  pond,  where  Maryland  yellow-throats  and 
song-sparrows  were  settled  ;  and  under  the  lofty 
hemlocks  of  the  fragment  of  forest  across  the 
road,  where  rare  warblers  flitted  silently  among 
the  tree-tops.  The  light  beneath  the  evergreens 
was  growing  dim  as  we  came  out  from  their 
shadow  into  the  widespread  glow  of  the  sunset, 
on  the  edge  of  a  grassy  hill,  overlooking  the 
173 


WHO  OWNS   THE  MOUNTAINS? 

long  valley  of  the  Gale  River,  and  uplooking  to 
the  Franconia  Mountains. 

It  was  the  benediction  hour.  The  placid  air 
of  the  day  shed  a  new  tranquillity  over  the  con 
soling  landscape.  The  heart  of  the  earth  seemed 
to  taste  a  repose  more  perfect  than  that  of  com 
mon  days.  A  hermit-thrush,  far  up  the  vale, 
sang  his  vesper  hymn ;  while  the  swallows,  seek 
ing  their  evening  meal,  circled  above  the  river- 
fields  without  an  effort,  twittering  softly,  now 
and  then,  as  if  they  must  give  thanks.  Slight 
and  indefinable  touches  in  the  scene,  perhaps 
the  mere  absence  of  the  tiny  human  figures  pass 
ing  along  the  road  or  labouring  in  the  distant 
meadows,  perhaps  the  blue  curls  of  smoke  rising 
lazily  from  the  farmhouse  chimneys,  or  the  fam 
ily  groups  sitting  under  the  maple-trees  before 
the  door,  diffused  a  sabbath  atmosphere  over  the 
world. 

Then  said  the  lad,  lying  on  the  grass  beside 
me,  "  Father,  who  owns  the  mountains  ?  " 

I  happened  to  have  heard,  the  day  before,  of 
two  or  three  lumber  companies  that  had  bought 
some  of  the  woodland  slopes  ;  so  I  told  him  their 
names,  adding  that  there  were  probably  a  good 
many  different  owners,  whose  claims  taken  all 
together  would  cover  the  whole  Franconia  range 
of  hiUs. 

"  Well,"  answered  the  lad,  after  a  moment 
174 


*, 


WHO  OWNS   THE  MOUNTAINS  ? 

of  silence,  "  I  don't  see  what  difference  that 
makes.  Everybody  can  look  at  them." 

They  lay  stretched  out  before  us  in  the  level 
sunlight,  the  sharp  peaks  outlined  against  the 
sky,  the  vast  ridges  of  forest  sinking  smoothly 
towards  the  valleys,  the  deep  hollows  gathering 
purple  shadows  in  their  bosoms,  and  the  little 
foothills  standing  out  in  rounded  promontories 
of  brighter  green  from  the  darker  mass  behind 
them. 

Far  to  the  east,  the  long  comb  of  Twin  Moun 
tain  extended  itself  back  into  the  untrodden 
wilderness.  Mount  Garfield  lifted  a  clear-cut 
pyramid  through  the  translucent  air.  The  huge 
bulk  of  Lafayette  ascended  majestically  in  front 
of  us,  crowned  with  a  rosy  diadem  of  rocks. 
Eagle  Cliff  and  Bald  Mountain  stretched  their 
line  of  scalloped  peaks  across  the  entrance  to  the 
Notch.  Beyond  that  shadowy  vale,  the  swelling 
summits  of  Cannon  Mountain  rolled  away  to 
meet  the  tumbling  waves  of  Kinsman,  domi 
nated  by  one  loftier  crested  billow  that  seemed 
almost  ready  to  curl  and  break  out  of  green  si 
lence  into  snowy  foam.  Far  down  the  sleeping 
Landaff  valley  the  undulating  dome  of  Moosi- 
lauke  trembled  in  the  distant  blue. 

They  were  all  ours,  from  crested  cliff  to 
wooded  base.  The  solemn  groves  of  firs  and 
spruces,  the  plumed  sierras  of  lofty  pines,  the 
175 


WHO  OWNS  THE  MOUNTAINS  f 

stately  pillared  forests  of  birch  and  beech,  the 
wild  ravines,  the  tremulous  thickets  of  silvery 
poplar,  the  bare  peaks  with  their  wide  outlooks,, 
and  the  cool  vales  resounding  with  the  ceaseless 
song  of  little  rivers,  —  we  knew  and  loved  them 
all ;  they  ministered  peace  and  joy  to  us ;  they 
were  all  ours,  though  we  held  no  title  deeds  and 
our  ownership  had  never  been  recorded. 

What  is  property,  after  all  ?  The  law  says 
there  are  two  kinds,  real  and  personal.  But  it 
seems  to  me  that  the  only  real  property  is  that 
which  is  truly  personal,  that  which  we  take  into 
our  inner  life  and  make  our  own  forever,  by 
understanding  and  admiration  and  sympathy 
and  love.  This  is  the  only  kind  of  possession 
that  is  worth  anything. 

A  gallery  of  great  paintings  adorns  the  house 
of  the  Honourable  Midas  Bond,  and  every  year 
adds  a  new  treasure  to  his  collection.  He  knows 
how  much  they  cost  him,  and  he  keeps  the  run 
of  the  quotations  at  the  auction  sales,  congratu 
lating  himself  as  the  price  of  the  works  of  his 
well-chosen  artists  rises  in  the  scale,  and  the 
value  of  his  art  treasures  is  enhanced.  But  why 
should  he  call  them  his  ?  He  is  only  their  custo 
dian.  He  keeps  them  well  varnished,  and  framed 
in  gilt.  But  he  never  passes  through  those  gilded 
frames  into  the  world  of  beauty  that  lies  behind 
the  painted  canvas.  He  knows  nothing  of  those 
176 


WHO  OWNS   THE  MOUNTAINS? 

lovely  places  from  which  the  artist's  soul  and 
hand  have  drawn  their  inspiration.  They  are 
closed  and  barred  to  him.  He  has  bought  the 
pictures,  but  he  cannot  buy  the  key.  The  poor 
art  student  who  wanders  through  his  gallery, 
lingering  with  awe  and  love  before  the  mas 
terpieces,  owns  them  far  more  truly  than  Midas 
does. 

Pomposus  Silverman  purchased  a  rich  library 
a  few  years  ago.  The  books  were  rare  and  costly. 
That  was  the  reason  why  Pomposus  bought  them. 
He  was  proud  to  feel  that  he  was  the  possessor 
of  literary  treasures  which  were  not  to  be  found 
in  the  houses  of  his  wealthiest  acquaintances. 
But  the  threadbare  Biicherfreund,  who  was  en 
gaged  at  a  slender  salary  to  catalogue  the  library 
and  take  care  of  it,  became  the  real  proprietor. 
Pomposus  paid  for  the  books,  but  Biicherfreund 
enjoyed  them. 

I  do  not  mean  to  say  that  the  possession  of 
much  money  is  always  a  barrier  to  real  wealth 
of  mind  and  heart.  Nor  would  I  maintain  that 
all  the  poor  of  this  world  are  rich  in  faith  and 
heirs  of  the  kingdom.  But  some  of  them  are. 
And  if  some  of  the  rich  of  this  world  (through 
the  grace  of  Him  with  whom  all  things  are  pos 
sible)  are  also  modest  in  their  tastes,  and  gentle 
in  their  hearts,  and  open  in  their  minds,  and 
ready  to  be  pleased  with  unbought  pleasures, 
177 


WHO   OWNS   THE  MOUNTAINS? 

they  simply  share  in  the  best  things  which  are 
provided  for  all. 

I  speak  not  now  of  the  strife  that  men  wage 
over  the  definition  and  the  laws  of  property. 
Doubtless  there  is  much  here  that  needs  to  be 
set  right.  There  are  men  and  women  in  the 
world  who  are  shut  out  from  the  right  to  earn  a 
living,  so  poor  that  they  must  perish  for  want 
of  daily  bread,  so  full  of  misery  that  there  is  no 
room  for  the  tiniest  seed  of  joy  in  their  lives. 
This  is  the  lingering  shame  of  civilization. 
Some  day,  perhaps,  we  shall  find  the  way  to 
banish  it.  Some  day,  every  man  shall  have  his 
title  to  a  share  in  the  world's  great  work  and 
the  world's  large  joy. 

But  meantime  it  is  certain  that,  where  there 
are  a  hundred  poor  bodies  who  suffer  from  phy 
sical  privation,  there  are  a  thousand  poor  souls 
who  suffer  from  spiritual  poverty.  To  relieve 
this  greater  suffering  there  needs  no  change  of 
laws,  only  a  change  of  heart. 

What  does  it  profit  a  man  to  be  the  landed 
proprietor  of  countless  acres  unless  he  can  reap 
the  harvest  of  delight  that  blooms  from  every 
rood  of  God's  earth  for  the  seeing  eye  and  the 
loving  spirit  ?  And  who  can  reap  that  harvest 
so  closely  that  there  shall  not  be  abundant 
gleaning  left  for  all  mankind  ?  The  most  that 
a  wide  principality  can  yield  to  its  legal  ownei 
178 


WHO  OWNS  THE  MOUNTAINS? 

is  a  living.  But  the  real  owner  can  gather  from 
a  field  of  goldenrod,  shining  in  the  August  sun 
light,  an  unearned  increment  of  delight. 

We  measure  success  by  accumulation.  The 
measure  is  false.  The  true  measure  is  apprecia 
tion.  He  who  loves  most  has  most. 

How  foolishly  we  train  ourselves  for  the  work 
of  life !  We  give  our  most  arduous  and  eager 
efforts  to  the  cultivation  of  those  faculties  which 
will  serve  us  in  the  competitions  of  the  forum 
and  the  market-place.  But  if  we  were  wise,  we 
should  care  infinitely  more  for  the  unfolding  of 
those  inward,  secret,  spiritual  powers  by  which 
alone  we  can  become  the  owners  of  anything 
that  is  worth  having.  Surely  God  is  the  great 
proprietor.  Yet  all  His  works  He  has  given 
away.  He  holds  no  title-deeds.  The  one  thing 
that  is  His,  is  the  perfect  understanding,  the  per 
fect  joy,  the  perfect  love,  of  all  things  that  He 
has  made.  To  a  share  in  this  high  ownership 
He  welcomes  all  who  are  poor  in  spirit.  This 
is  the  earth  which  the  meek  inherit.  This  is 
the  patrimony  of  the  saints  in  light. 

"  Come,  laddie,"  I  said  to  my  comrade,  "  let 
us  go  home.  You  and  I  are  very  rich.  We  own 
the  mountains.  But  we  can  never  sell  them,  and 
we  don't  want  to." 


179 


X 

A  LAZY,  IDLE  BROOK 


"  Perpetual  devotion  to  what  a  man  calls  his  business  is  only  to  be 
sustained  by  perpetual  neglect  of  many  other  things.  A  nd  it  is  not 
by  any  means  certain  that  a  mati's  business  is  the  most  important 
thing  he  has  to  do."  —  ROBERT  Louis  STEVENSON:  An  Apology  for 
Idlers. 


A  LAZY,  IDLE  BROOK 


A  CASUAL  INTRODUCTION 

ON  the  South  Shore  of  Long  Island,  all  things 
incline  to  a  natural  somnolence.  There  are  no 
ambitious  mountains,  no  braggart  cliffs,  no  hasty 
torrents,  no  bustling  waterfalls  in  that  land, 

u  In  which  it  seemeth  always  afternoon." 

The  salt  meadows  sleep  in  the  summer  sun ;  the 
farms  and  market-gardens  yield  a  placid  harvest 
to  a  race  of  singularly  unhurried  tillers  of  the 
soil ;  the  low  hills  rise  with  gentle  slopes,  not 
caring  to  get  too  high  in  the  world,  only  far 
enough  to  catch  a  pleasant  glimpse  of  the  sea 
and  a  breath  of  fresh  air ;  the  very  trees  grow 
leisurely,  as  if  they  felt  that  they  had  "  all  the 
time  there  is."  And  from  this  dreamy  land, 
close  as  it  lies  to  the  unresting  ocean,  the  tumult 
of  the  breakers  and  the  foam  of  ever-turning 
tides  are  shut  off  by  the  languid  lagoons  of  the 
Great  South  Bay  and  a  long  range  of  dunes, 
183 


A  LAZY,   IDLE  BROOK 

crested  with  wire-grass,  bay-bushes,  and  wild- 
roses. 

In  such  a  country  you  could  not  expect  a  lit 
tle  brook  to  be  noisy,  fussy,  energetic.  If  it 
were  not  lazy,  it  would  be  out  of  keeping. 

But  the  actual  and  undisguised  idleness  of 
this  particular  brook  was  another  affair,  and 
one  in  which  it  was  distinguished  among  its  fel 
lows.  For  almost  all  the  other  little  rivers  of 
the  South  Shore,  lazy  as  they  may  be  by  nature, 
yet  manage  to  do  some  kind  of  work  before  they 
finish  the  journey  from  their  crystal-clear  springs 
into  the  brackish  waters  of  the  bay.  They  turn 
the  wheels  of  sleepy  gristmills,  while  the  miller 
sits  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets  underneath 
the  willow-trees.  They  fill  reservoirs  out  of 
which  great  steam-engines  pump  the  water  to 
quench  the  thirst  of  Brooklyn.  Even  the 
smaller  streams  tarry  long  enough  in  their  sea 
ward  sauntering  to  irrigate  a  few  cranberry- 
bogs  and  so  provide  that  savoury  sauce  which 
makes  the  Long  Island  turkey  a  fitter  subject 
for  Thanksgiving. 

But  this  brook  of  which  I  speak  did  none  of 
these  useful  things.  It  was  absolutely  out  of 
business.  There  was  not  a  mill,  nor  a  reservoir, 
nor  a  cranberry-bog,  on  all  its  course  of  a  short 
mile.  The  only  profitable  affair  it  ever  under 
took  was  to  fill  a  small  ice-pond  near  its  en- 
184 


A  LAZY,  IDLE  BEOOK 

trance  into  the  Great  South  Bay.  You  could 
hardly  call  this  a  very  energetic  enterprise.  It 
amounted  to  little  more  than  a  good-natured 
consent  to  allow  itself  to  be  used  by  the  winter 
for  the  making  of  ice,  if  the  winter  happened 
to  be  cold  enough.  Even  this  passive  industry 
came  to  nothing ;  for  the  water,  being  separated 
from  the  bay  only  by  a  short  tideway  under  a 
wooden  bridge  on  the  south  country  road,  was 
too  brackish  to  freeze  easily ;  and  the  ice,  being 
pervaded  with  weeds,  was  not  much  relished  by 
the  public.  So  the  wooden  ice-house,  innocent 
of  paint,  and  toned  by  the  weather  to  a  soft, 
sad-coloured  gray,  stood  like  an  improvised  ruin 
among  the  pine-trees  beside  the  pond. 

It  was  through  this  unharvested  ice-pond,  this 
fallow  field  of  water,  that  my  lady  Graygown 
and  I  entered  on  acquaintance  with  our  lazy, 
idle  brook.  We  had  a  house,  that  summer,  a 
few  miles  down  the  bay.  But  it  was  a  very 
small  house,  and  the  room  that  we  liked  best 
was  out  of  doors.  So  we  spent  much  time  in  a 
sailboat,  —  by  name  "  The  Patience,"  —  mak 
ing  voyages  of  exploration  into  watery  corners 
and  byways.  Sailing  past  the  wooden  bridge 
one  day,  when  a  strong  east  wind  had  made  a 
very  low  tide,  we  observed  the  water  flowing  out 
beneath  the  road  with  an  eddying  current.  We 
were  interested  to  discover  where  such  a  stream 
185 


A  LAZY,  IDLE  BEOOK 

came  from.  But  the  sailboat  could  not  go  under 
the  bridge,  nor  even  make  a  landing  on  the 
shore  without  risk  of  getting  aground.  The 
next  day  we  came  back  in  a  rowboat  to  follow 
the  clue  of  curiosity.  The  tide  was  high  now, 
and  we  passed  with  the  reversed  current  under 
the  bridge,  almost  bumping  our  heads  against  the 
timbers.  Emerging  upon  the  pond,  we  rowed 
across  its  shallow,  weed-encumbered  waters,  and 
were  introduced  without  ceremony  to  one  of  the 
most  agreeable  brooks  that  we  had  ever  met. 

It  was  quite  broad  where  it  came  into  the 
pond,  —  a  hundred  feet  from  side  to  side,  —  bor 
dered  with  flags  and  rushes  and  feathery  meadow 
grasses.  The  real  channel  meandered  in  sweep 
ing  curves  from  bank  to  bank,  and  the  water, 
except  in  the  swifter  current,  was  filled  with  an 
amazing  quantity  of  some  aquatic  moss.  The 
woods  came  straggling  down  on  either  shore. 
There  were  fallen  trees  in  the  stream  here  and 
there.  On  one  of  the  points  an  old  swamp- 
maple,  with  its  decrepit  branches  and  its  leaves 
already  touched  with  the  hectic  colours  of  decay, 
hung  far  out  over  the  water  which  was  under 
mining  it,  looking  and  leaning  downward,  like 
an  aged  man  who  bends,  half-sadly  and  half- 
willingly,  towards  the  grave. 

But  for  the  most  part  the  brook  lay  wide 
open  to  the  sky,  and  the  tide,  rising  and  sinking 
186 


A  LAZY,   IDLE  BROOK 

somewhat  irregularly  in  the  pond  below,  made 
curious  alternations  in  its  depth  and  in  the  swift 
ness  of  its  current.  For  about  half  a  mile  we 
navigated  this  lazy  little  river,  and  then  we 
found  that  rowing  would  carry  us  no  farther, 
for  we  came  to  a  place  where  the  stream  issued 
with  a  livelier  flood  from  an  archway  in  a 
thicket. 

This  woodland  portal  was  not  more  than  four 
feet  wide,  and  the  branches  of  the  small  trees 
were  closely  interwoven  overhead.  We  shipped 
the  oars  and  took  one  of  them  for  a  paddle. 
Stooping  down,  we  pushed  the  boat  through 
the  archway  and  found  ourselves  in  the  Fairy 
Dell.  It  was  a  long,  narrow  bower,  perhaps  four 
hundred  feet  from  end  to  end,  with  the  brook 
dancing  through  it  in  a  joyous,  musical  flow  over 
a  bed  of  clean  yellow  sand  and  white  pebbles. 
There  were  deep  places  in  the  curves  where  you 
could  hardly  touch  bottom  with  an  oar,  and 
shallow  places  in  the  straight  runs  where  the 
boat  would  barely  float.  Not  a  ray  of  unbroken 
sunlight  leaked  through  the  green  roof  of  this 
winding  corridor ;  and  all  along  the  sides  there 
were  delicate  mosses  and  tall  ferns  and  wild- 
wood  flowers  that  love  the  shade. 

At  the  upper  end  of  the  bower  our  progress 
in  the  boat  was  barred  by  a  low  bridge,  on  a 
forgotten  road  that  wound  through  the  pine- 
187 


A  LAZY,  IDLE  BEOOK 

woods.  Here  I  left  my  lady  Graygown,  seated 
on  the  shady  corner  of  the  bridge  with  a  book, 
swinging  her  feet  over  the  stream,  while  I  set 
out  to  explore  its  further  course.  Above  the 
wood-road  there  were  no  more  fairy  dells,  nor 
easy-going  estuaries.  The  water  came  down 
through  the  most  complicated  piece  of  under 
brush  that  I  have  ever  encountered.  Alders 
and  swamp  maples  and  pussy-willows  and  gray 
birches  grew  together  in  a  wild  confusion. 
Blackberry  bushes  and  fox-grapes  and  cat-briers 
trailed  and  twisted  themselves  in  an  incredible 
tangle.  There  was  only  one  way  to  advance, 
and  that  was  to  wade  in  the  middle  of  the 
brook,  stooping  low,  lifting  up  the  pendulous 
alder-branches,  threading  a  tortuous  course,  now 
under  and  now  over  the  innumerable  obstacles, 
as  a  darning-needle  is  pushed  in  and  out  through 
the  yarn  of  a  woollen  stocking. 

It  was  dark  and  lonely  in  that  difficult  pas 
sage.  The  brook  divided  into  many  channels, 
turning  this  way  and  that  way,  as  if  it  were 
lost  in  the  woods.  There  were  huge  clumps  of 
Osmunda  regalis  spreading  their  fronds  in 
tropical  profusion.  Mouldering  logs  were  cov 
ered  with  moss.  The  water  gurgled  slowly  into 
deep  corners  under  the  banks.  Catbirds  and 
blue  jays  fluttered  screaming  from  the  thickets. 
Cotton-tailed  rabbits  darted  away,  showing  the 
188 


A  LAZY,  IDLE  BEOOK 

white  flag  of  fear.  Once  I  thought  I  saw  the 
fuscous  gleam  of  a  red  fox  stealing  silently 
through  the  brush.  It  would  have  been  no  sur 
prise  to  hear  the  bark  of  a  raccoon,  or  see  the 
eyes  of  a  wildcat  gleaming  through  the  leaves. 

For  more  than  an  hour  I  was  pushing  my 
way  through  this  miniature  wilderness  of  half 
a  mile ;  and  then  I  emerged  suddenly,  to  find 
myself  face  to  face  with  —  a  railroad  embank 
ment  and  the  afternoon  express,  with  its  par 
lour-cars,  thundering  down  to  Southampton ! 

It  was  a  strange  and  startling  contrast.  The 
explorer's  joy,  the  sense  of  adventure,  the  feeling 
of  wildness  and  freedom,  withered  and  crumpled 
somewhat  preposterously  at  the  sight  of  the 
parlour-cars.  My  scratched  hands  and  wet  boots 
and  torn  coat  seemed  unkempt  and  disreputa 
ble.  Perhaps  some  of  the  well-dressed  people 
looking  out  at  the  windows  of  the  train  were 
the  friends  with  whom  we  were  to  dine  on  Sat 
urday.  Bateche!  What  would  they  say  to 
such  a  costume  as  mine?  What  did  I  care 
what  they  said ! 

But,  all  the  same,  it  was  a  shock,  a  disen 
chantment,  to  find  that  civilization,  with  all  its 
absurdities  and  conventionalities,  was  so  threat 
eningly  close  to  my  new-found  wilderness.  My 
first  enthusiasm  was  not  a  little  chilled  as  I 
walked  back,  along  an  open  woodland  path,  to 
189 


A  LAZY,  IDLE  BROOK 

the  bridge  where  Graygown  was  placidly  read* 
ing.  Keading,  I  say,  though  her  book  was 
closed,  and  her  brown  eyes  were  wandering  over 
the  green  leaves  of  the  thicket,  and  the  white 
clouds  drifting,  drifting  lazily  across  the  blue 
deep  of  the  sky. 

II 

A   BETTER    ACQUAINTANCE 

On  the  voyage  home,  she  gently  talked  me  out 
of  my  disappointment,  and  into  a  wiser  frame 
of  mind. 

It  was  a  surprise,  of  course,  she  admitted,  to 
find  that  our  wilderness  was  so  little,  and  to 
discover  the  trail  of  a  parlour-car  on  the  edge 
of  Paradise.  But  why  not  turn  the  surprise 
around,  and  make  it  pleasant  instead  of  disa 
greeable  ?  Why  not  look  at  the  contrast  from 
the  side  that  we  liked  best  ? 

It  was  not  necessary  that  everybody  should 
take  the  same  view  of  life  that  pleased  us.  The 
world  would  not  get  on  very  well  without  people 
who  preferred  parlour-cars  to  canoes,  and  patent- 
leather  shoes  to  India-rubber  boots,  and  ten- 
course  dinners  to  picnics  in  the  woods.  These 
good  people  were  unconsciously  toiling  at  the 
hard  and  necessary  work  of  life  in  order  that 
we,  of  the  chosen  and  fortunate  few,  should 
190 


A  LAZY,  IDLE  BROOK 

be  at  liberty  to  enjoy  the  best  things  in  the 
world. 

Why  should  we  neglect  our  opportunities, 
which  were  also  our  real  duties  ?  The  nervous 
disease  of  civilization  might  prevail  all  around 
us,  but  that  ought  not  to  destroy  our  grateful 
enjoyment  of  the  lucid  intervals  that  were 
granted  to  us  by  a  merciful  Providence. 

Why  should  we  not  take  this  little  untamed 
brook,  running  its  humble  course  through  the 
borders  of  civilized  life  and  midway  between 
two  flourishing  summer  resorts,  —  a  brook  with 
out  a  single  house  or  a  cultivated  field  on  its 
banks,  as  free  and  beautiful  and  secluded  as  if 
it  flowed  through  miles  of  trackless  forest, — 
why  not  take  this  brook  as  a  sign  that  the 
ordering  of  the  universe  had  a  "good  inten 
tion  "  even  for  inveterate  idlers,  and  that  the 
great  Arranger  of  the  world  felt  some  kindness 
for  such  gipsy -hearts  as  ours?  What  law, 
human  or  divine,  was  there  to  prevent  us  from 
making  this  stream  our  symbol  of  deliverance 
from  the  conventional  and  commonplace,  our 
guide  to  liberty  and  a  quiet  mind  ? 

So  reasoned  Graygown  with  her 

"  most  silver  flow 
Of  subtle-pace*d  counsel  in  distress." 

And,  according  to  her  word,  so  did  we.    That 

lazy,  idle  brook  became  to  us  one  of  the  best  of 

191 


A  LAZY,  IDLE  BROOK 

friends;  the  pathfinder  of  happiness  on  many 
a  bright  summer  day ;  and,  through  long  vaca 
tions,  the  faithful  encourager  of  indolence. 

Indolence  in  the  proper  sense  of  the  word, 
you  understand.  The  meaning  which  is  com 
monly  given  to  it,  as  Archbishop  Trench  pointed 
out  in  his  suggestive  book  about  Words  and 
Their  Uses,  is  altogether  false.  To  speak  of 
indolence  as  if  it  were  a  vice  is  just  a  great 
big  verbal  slander. 

Indolence  is  a  virtue.  It  comes  from  two 
Latin  words,  which  mean  freedom  from  anxiety 
or  grief.  And  that  is  a  wholesome  state  of  mind. 
There  are  times  and  seasons  when  it  is  even  a 
pious  and  blessed  state  of  mind.  Not  to  be  in 
a  hurry ;  not  to  be  ambitious  or  jealous  or  re 
sentful  ;  not  to  feel  envious  of  anybody ;  not  to 
fret  about  to-day  nor  worry  about  tomorrow,  — 
that  is  the  way  we  ought  all  to  feel  at  some  time 
in  our  lives  ;  and  that  is  the  kind  of  indolence 
in  which  our  brook  faithfully  encouraged  us. 

'T  is  an  age  in  which  such  encouragement  is 
greatly  needed.  We  have  fallen  so  much  into 
the  habit  of  being  always  busy  that  we  know 
not  how  nor  when  to  break  it  off  with  firmness. 
Our  business  tags  after  us  into  the  midst  of  our 
pleasures,  and  we  are  ill  at  ease  beyond  reach  of 
the  telegraph  and  the  daily  newspaper.  We 
agitate  ourselves  amazingly  about  a  multitude 
192 


A  LAZY,  IDLE  BROOK 

of  affairs,  —  the  politics  of  Europe,  the  state  of 
the  weather  all  around  the  globe,  the  marriages 
and  festivities  of  very  rich  people,  and  the  latest 
novelties  in  crime,  none  of  which  are  of  vital  in 
terest  to  us.  The  more  earnest  souls  among  us 
are  cultivating  a  vicious  tendency  to  Summer 
Schools,  and  Seaside  Institutes  of  Philosophy, 
and  Mountaintop  Seminaries  of  Modern  Lan 
guages. 

We  toil  assiduously  to  cram  something  more 
into  those  scrap -bags  of  knowledge  which  we 
fondly  call  our  minds.  Seldom  do  we  rest  tran 
quil  long  enough  to  find  out  whether  there  is 
anything  in  them  already  that  is  of  real  value, 
— -  any  native  feeling,  any  original  thought, 
which  would  like  to  come  out  and  sun  itself  for 
a  while  in  quiet. 

For  my  part,  I  am  sure  that  I  stand  more  in 
need  of  a  deeper  sense  of  contentment  with  life 
than  of  a  knowledge  of  the  Bulgarian  tongue, 
and  that  all  the  paradoxes  of  Hegel  would  not 
do  me  so  much  good  as  one  hour  of  vital  sym 
pathy  with  the  careless  play  of  children.  The 
Marquis  du  Paty  de  FHuitre  may  espouse  the 
daughter  and  heiress  of  the  Honourable  James 
Bulger  with  all  imaginable  pomp,  if  he  will. 
Oa  ne  m' intrigue  point  du  tout.  I  would  rather 
stretch  myself  out  on  the  grass  and  watch  yon 
der  pair  of  kingbirds  carrying  luscious  flies  to 
193 


A  LAZY,  IDLE  BROOK 

their  young  ones  in  the  nest,  or  chasing  away 
the  marauding  crow  with  shrill  cries  of  anger. 

What  a  pretty  battle  it  is,  and  in  a  good 
cause,  too !  Waste  no  pity  on  that  big  black 
ruffian.  He  is  a  villain  and  a  thief,  an  egg- 
stealer,  an  ogre,  a  devourer  of  unfledged  inno 
cents.  The  kingbirds  are  not  afraid  of  him, 
knowing  that  he  is  a  coward  at  heart.  They  fly 
upon  him,  now  from  below,  now  from  above. 
They  buffet  him  from  one  side  and  from  the 
other.  They  circle  round  him  like  a  pair  of 
swift  gunboats  round  an  antiquated  man-of-war. 
They  even  perch  upon  his  back  and  dash  their 
beaks  into  his  neck  and  pluck  feathers  from  his 
piratical  plumage.  At  last  his  lumbering  flight 
has  carried  him  far  enough  away,  and  the  brave 
little  defenders  fly  back  to  the  nest,  poising 
above  it  on  quivering  wings  for  a  moment,  then 
dipping  down  swiftly  in  pursuit  of  some  passing 
insect.  The  war  is  over.  Courage  has  had  its 
turn.  Now  tenderness  comes  into  play.  The 
young  birds,  all  ignorant  of  the  passing  danger, 
but  always  conscious  of  an  insatiable  hunger, 
are  uttering  loud  remonstrances  and  plaintive 
demands  for  food.  Domestic  life  begins  again, 
and  they  that  sow  not,  neither  gather  into  barns, 
are  fed. 

Do  you  suppose  that  this  wondrous  stage  of 
194 


A  LAZY,  IDLE  BROOK 

earth  was  set,  and  all  the  myriad  actors  on  it 
taught  to  play  their  parts,  without  a  spectator 
in  view?  Do  you  think  that  there  is  anything 
better  for  you  and  me  to  do,  now  and  then, 
than  to  sit  down  quietly  in  a  humble  seat,  and 
watch  a  few  scenes  in  the  drama  ?  Has  it  not 
something  to  say  to  us,  and  do  we  not  under 
stand  it  best  when  we  have  a  peaceful  heart  and 
free  from  dolor  ?  That  is  what  in-dolence  means, 
and  there  are  no  better  teachers  of  it  than  the 
light-hearted  birds  and  untoiling  flowers,  com 
mended  by  the  wisest  of  all  masters  to  our  con 
sideration  ;  nor  can  we  find  a  more  pleasant  ped 
agogue  to  lead  us  to  their  school  than  a  small, 
merry  brook. 

And  this  was  what  our  chosen  stream  did 
for  us.  It  was  always  luring  us  away  from  an 
artificial  life  into  restful  companionship  with 
nature. 

Suppose,  for  example,  we  found  ourselves 
growing  a  bit  dissatisfied  with  the  domestic 
arrangements  of  our  little  cottage,  and  coveting 
the  splendours  of  a  grander  establishment.  An 
afternoon  on  the  brook  was  a  good  cure  for  that 
folly.  Or  suppose  a  day  came  when  there  was  an 
imminent  prospect  of  many  formal  calls.  We 
had  an  important  engagement  up  the  brook; 
and  while  we  kept  it  we  could  think  with  satis 
faction  of  the  joy  of  our  callers  when  they  dis- 
195 


A  LAZY,  IDLE  BROOK 

covered  that  they  could  discharge  their  whole 
duty  with  a  piece  of  pasteboard.  This  was  an 
altruistic  pleasure.  Or  suppose  that  a  few 
friends  were  coming  to  supper,  and  there  were 
no  flowers  for  the  supper-table.  We  could  easily 
have  bought  them  in  the  village.  But  it  was  far 
more  to  our  liking  to  take  the  children  up  the 
brook,  and  come  back  with  great  bunches  of 
wild  white  honeysuckle  and  blue  flag,  or  posies 
of  arrowheads  and  cardinal-flowers.  Or  sup 
pose  that  I  was  very  unwisely  and  reluctantly 
labouring  at  some  serious  piece  of  literary  work, 
promised  for  the  next  number  of  The  Scribbler's 
Review  ;  and  suppose  that  in  the  midst  of  this 
labour  the  sad  news  came  to  me  that  the  fisher 
man  had  forgotten  to  leave  any  fish  at  our  cot 
tage  that  morning.  Should  my  innocent  babes 
and  my  devoted  wife  be  left  to  perish  of  starva 
tion  while  I  continued  my  poetical  comparison 
of  the  two  Williams,  Shakspeare  and  Watson  ? 
Inhuman  selfishness  !  Of  course  it  was  my  plain 
duty  to  sacrifice  my  inclinations,  and  get  my 
fly-rod,  and  row  away  across  the  bay,  with  a  de 
ceptive  appearance  of  cheerfulness,  to  catch  a 
basket  of  trout  in 


196 


A  LAZY,  IDLE  BROOK 

ni 

THE  SECRETS   OF  INTIMACY 

There  !  I  came  within  eight  letters  of  telling 
the  name  of  the  brook,  a  thing  that  I  am  firmly 
resolved  not  to  do.  If  it  were  an  ordinary  fish- 
less  little  river,  or  even  a  stream  with  nothing 
better  than  grass-pike  and  sunfish  in  it,  you 
should  have  the  name  and  welcome.  But  when 
a  brook  contains  speckled  trout,  and  when  their 
presence  is  known  to  a  very  few  persons  who 
guard  the  secret  as  the  dragon  guarded  the 
golden  apples  of  the  Hesperides,  and  when  the 
size  of  the  trout  is  large  beyond  the  dreams  of 
hope,  —  well,  when  did  you  know  a  true  angler 
who  would  willingly  give  away  the  name  of 
such  a  brook  as  that  ?  You  may  find  an  encour- 
ager  of  indolence  in  almost  any  stream  of  the 
South  Side,  and  I  wish  you  joy  of  your  brook. 
But  if  you  want  to  catch  trout  in  mine  you  must 
discover  it  for  yourself,  or  perhaps  go  with  me 
some  day,  and  solemnly  swear  secrecy. 

That  was  the  way  in  which  the  freedom  of 
the  stream  was  conferred  upon  me.  There  was 
a  small  boy  in  the  village,  the  son  of  rich  but 
respectable  parents,  and  an  inveterate  all-round 
sportsman,  aged  fourteen  years,  with  whom  I 
had  formed  a  close  intimacy.  I  was  telling  him 
197 


A  LAZY,  IDLE  BROOK 

about  the  pleasure  of  exploring  the  idle  brook, 
and  expressing  the  opinion  that  in  bygone 
days,  (in  that  mythical  "forty  years  ago"  when 
all  fishing  was  good),  there  must  have  been  trout 
in  it.  A  certain  look  came  over  the  boy's  face. 
He  gazed  at  me  solemnly,  as  if  he  were  search 
ing  the  inmost  depths  of  my  character  before  he 
spoke. 

"  Say,  do  you  want  to  know  something  ?  " 

I  assured  him  that  an  increase  of  knowledge 
was  the  chief  aim  of  my  life. 

"  Do  you  promise  you  won't  tell  ?  " 

I  expressed  my  readiness  to  be  bound  to  si 
lence  by  the  most  awful  pledge  that  the  law 
would  sanction. 

"  Wish  you  may  die  ?  " 

I  not  only  wished  that  I  might  die,  but  was 
perfectly  certain  that  I  would  die. 

"  Well,  what 's  the  matter  with  catching  trout 
in  that  brook  now  ?  Do  you  want  to  go  with 
me  next  Saturday  ?  I  saw  four  or  five  bully 
ones  last  week,  and  got  three." 

On  the  appointed  day,  we  made  the  voyage, 
landed  at  the  upper  bridge,  walked  around  by 
the  woodpath  to  the  railroad  embankment,  and 
began  to  worm  our  way  down  through  the  tan 
gled  wilderness.  Fly-fishing,  of  course,  was  out 
of  the  question.  The  only  possible  method  of 
angling  was  to  let  the  line,  baited  with  a  juicy 
198 


A  LAZY,  IDLE  BROOK 

"  garden  hackle,"  drift  down  the  current  as  far 
as  possible  before  you,  under  the  alder-branches 
and  the  cat-briers,  into  the  holes  and  corners  of 
the  stream.  Then,  if  there  came  a  gentle  tug 
on  the  rod,  you  must  strike,  to  one  side  or  the 
other,  as  the  branches  might  allow,  and  trust 
wholly  to  luck  for  a  chance  to  play  the  fish. 
Many  a  trout  we  lost  that  day,  —  the  largest  ones, 
of  course,  —  and  many  a  hook  was  embedded 
in  a  sunken  log,  or  hopelessly  entwined  among 
the  boughs  overhead.  But  when  we  came  out 
at  the  bridge,  very  wet  and  disheveled,  we  had 
seven  pretty  fish,  the  heaviest  about  half  a  pound. 
The  Fairy  Dell  yielded  a  brace  of  smaller  ones, 
and  altogether  we  were  reasonably  happy  as  we 
took  up  the  oars  and  pushed  out  upon  the  open 
stream. 

But  if  there  were  fish  above,  why  should  there 
not  be  fish  below  ?  It  was  about  sunset,  the  an 
gler's  golden  hour.  We  were  already  committed 
to  the  crime  of  being  late  for  supper.  It  would 
add  little  to  our  guilt  and  much  to  our  pleasure 
to  drift  slowly  down  the  middle  of  the  brook 
and  cast  the  artful  fly  in  the  deeper  corners  on 
either  shore.  So  I  took  off  the  vulgar  bait- 
hook  and  put  on  a  delicate  leader  with  a  Queen 
of  the  Water  for  a  tail-fly  and  a  Yellow  Sally 
for  a  dropper,  —  innocent  little  confections  of 
feathers  and  tinsel,  dressed  on  the  tinest  hooks, 
199 


A  LAZY,  IDLE  BEOOK 

and  calculated  to  tempt  the  appetite  or  the  curi 
osity  of  the  most  capricious  trout. 

For  a  long  time  the  whipping  of  the  water 
produced  no  result,  and  it  seemed  as  if  the 
dainty  style  of  angling  were  destined  to  prove 
less  profitable  than  plain  fishing  with  a  worm. 
But  presently  we  came  to  an  elbow  of  the  brook, 
just  above  the  estuary,  where  there  was  quite  a 
stretch  of  clear  water  along  the  lower  side,  with 
two  half -sunken  logs  sticking  out  from  the  bank, 
against  which  the  current  had  drifted  a  broad 
raft  of  weeds.  I  made  a  long  cast,  and  sent  the 
tail-fly  close  to  the  edge  of  the  weeds.  There 
was  a  swelling  ripple  on  the  surface  of  the 
water,  and  a  noble  fish  darted  from  under  the 
logs,  dashed  at  the  fly,  missed  it,  and  whirled 
back  to  his  shelter. 

"  Gee !  "  said  the  boy,  "  that  was  a  whacker  ! 
He  made  a  wake  like  a  steamboat." 

It  was  a  moment  for  serious  thought.  What 
was  best  to  be  done  with  that  fish  ?  Leave  him 
to  settle  down  for  the  night  and  come  back  after 
him  another  day  ?  Or  try  another  cast  for  him 
at  once  ?  A  fish  on  Saturday  evening  is  worth 
two  on  Monday  morning.  I  changed  the  Queen 
of  the  Water  for  a  Royal  Coachman  tied  on  a 
number  fourteen  hook,  —  white  wings,  peacock 
body  with  a  belt  of  crimson  silk,  —  and  sent  it 
out  again,  a  foot  farther  up  the  stream  and  a 
200 


A  LAZY,  IDLE  BBOOK 

shade  closer  to  the  weeds.  As  it  settled  on  the 
water,  there  was  a  flash  of  gold  from  the  shadow 
beneath  the  logs,  and  a  quick  turn  of  the  wrist 
made  the  tiny  hook  fast  in  the  fish.  He  fought 
wildly  to  get  back  to  the  shelter  of  his  logs,  but 
the  four  ounce  rod  had  spring  enough  in  it  to 
hold  him  firmly  away  from  that  dangerous  re 
treat.  Then  he  splurged  up  and  down  the  open 
water,  and  made  fierce  dashes  among  the  grassy 
shallows,  and  seemed  about  to  escape  a  dozen 
times.  But  at  last  his  force  was  played  out ;  he 
came  slowly  towards  the  boat,  turning  on  his 
side,  and  I  netted  him  in  my  hat. 

"  Bully  for  us  ;  "  said  the  boy,  "  we  got  him  ! 
What  a  dandy  !  " 

It  was  indeed  one  of  the  handsomest  fish  that 
I  have  ever  taken  on  the  South  Side,  —  just 
short  of  two  pounds  and  a  quarter,  —  small 
head,  broad  tail,  and  well-rounded  sides  coloured 
with  orange  and  blue  and  gold  and  red.  A  pair 
of  the  same  kind,  one  weighing  two  pounds  and 
the  other  a  pound  and  three  quarters,  were  taken 
by  careful  fishing  down  the  lower  end  of  the 
pool,  and  then  we  rowed  home  through  the  dusk, 
pleasantly  convinced  that  there  is  no  virtue  more 
certainly  rewarded  than  the  patience  of  anglers, 
and  entirely  willing  to  put  up  with  a  cold  supper 
and  a  mild  reproof  for  the  sake  of  sport. 

Of  course  we  could  not  resist  the  temptation 
201 


A  LAZY,  IDLE  BROOK 

to  show  those  fish  to  the  neighbours.  But, 
equally  of  course,  we  evaded  the  request  to  give 
precise  information  as  to  the  precise  place  where 
they  were  caught.  Indeed,  I  fear  that  there 
must  have  been  something  confused  in  our  de 
scription  of  where  we  had  been  on  that  after 
noon.  Our  carefully  selected  language  may  have 
been  open  to  misunderstanding.  At  all  events, 
the  next  day,  which  was  the  Sabbath,  there  was 
a  row  of  eager  but  unprincipled  anglers  sitting 
on  a  bridge  over  another  stream,  and  fishing  for 
trout  with  worms  and  large  expectations,  but 
without  visible  results. 

The  boy  and  I  agreed  that  if  this  did  not  teach 
a  good  moral  lesson  it  was  not  our  fault. 

I  obtained  the  boy's  consent  to  admit  the  part 
ner  of  my  life's  joys  and  two  of  our  children  to 
the  secret  of  the  brook,  and  thereafter,  when  we 
visited  it,  we  took  the  fly-rod  with  us.  If  by 
chance  another  boat  passed  us  in  the  estuary,  we 
were  never  fishing,  but  only  gathering  flowers,  or 
going  for  a  picnic,  or  taking  photographs.  But 
when  the  uninitiated  ones  had  passed  by,  we 
would  get  out  the  rod  again,  and  try  a  few  more 
casts. 

One    day   in  particular    I   remember,   when 

Grraygown  and  little  Teddy  were  my  companions. 

We  really  had  no  hopes  of  angling,  for  the  hour 

was  mid-noon,  and  the  day  was  warm  and  still. 

202 


A  LAZY,  IDLE  BKOOK 

But  suddenly  the  trout,  by  one  of  those  unac 
countable  freaks  which  make  their  disposition 
so  interesting  and  attractive,  began  to  rise  all 
about  us  in  a  bend  of  the  stream. 

"  Look !  "  said  Teddy  ;  "  wherever  you  see  one 
of  those  big  smiles  on  the  water,  I  believe  there  's 
a  fish ! " 

Fortunately  the  rod  was  at  hand.  Gray  gown 
and  Teddy  managed  the  boat  and  the  landing- 
net  with  consummate  skill.  We  landed  no  less 
than  a  dozen  beautiful  fish  at  that  most  unlikely 
hour  and  then  solemnly  shook  hands  all  around. 

There  is  a  peculiar  pleasure  in  doing  a  thing 
like  this,  catching  trout  in  a  place  where  nobody 
thinks  of  looking  for  them,  and  at  an  hour  when 
everybody  believes  they  cannot  be  caught.  It 
is  more  fun  to  take  one  good  fish  out  of  an  old, 
fished-out  stream,  near  at  hand  to  the  village, 
than  to  fill  a  basket  from  some  far-famed  and 
well-stocked  water.  It  is  the  unexpected  touch 
that  tickles  our  sense  of  pleasure.  While  life 
lasts,  we  are  always  hoping  for  it  and  expecting 
it.  There  is  no  country  so  civilized,  no  exist 
ence  so  humdrum,  that  there  is  not  room  enough 
in  it  somewhere  for  a  lazy,  idle  brook,  an  en- 
courager  of  indolence,  with  hope  of  happy  sur- 
prises. 


203 


XI 

THE  OPEN   FIRE 


//  is  a  vulgar  notion  that  afire  is  only  for  heat.  A  chief  value  of  it  is, 
however,  to  look  at.  And  it  is  never  twice  the  same."  —  CHARLES 
DUDLEY  WARNER  :  Backlog  Studies. 


THE  OPEN  FIRE 

I 

LIGHTING  UP 

MAN  is  the  animal  that  has  made  friends  with 
the  fire. 

All  the  other  creatures,  in  their  natural  state, 
are  afraid  of  it.  They  look  upon  it  with  wonder 
and  dismay.  It  fascinates  them,  sometimes, 
with  its  glittering  eyes  in  the  night.  The  squir 
rels  and  the  hares  come  pattering  softly  to 
wards  it  through  the  underbrush  around  the 
new  camp.  The  deer  stands  staring  into  the 
blaze  of  the  jack  while  the  hunter's  canoe  creeps 
through  the  lily-pads.  But  the  charm  that  mas 
ters  them  is  one  of  dread,  not  of  love.  It  is  the 
witchcraft  of  the  serpent's  lambent  look.  When 
they  know  what  it  means,  when  the  heat  of  the 
fire  touches  them,  or  even  when  its  smell  comes 
clearly  to  their  most  delicate  sense,  they  recog 
nize  it  as  their  enemy,  the  Wild  Huntsman 
whose  red  hounds  can  follow,  follow  for  days 
without  wearying,  growing  stronger  and  more 
furious  with  every  turn  of  the  chase.  Let  but 
207 


THE  OPEN  FIRE 

a  trail  of  smoke  drift  down  the  wind  across  the 
forest,  and  all  the  game  for  miles  and  miles  will 
catch  the  signal  for  fear  and  flight. 

Many  of  the  animals  have  learned  how  to 
make  houses  for  themselves.  The  cabane  of 
the  beaver  is  a  wonder  of  neatness  and  comfort, 
much  preferable  to  the  wigwam  of  his  Indian 
hunter.  The  muskrat  knows  how  thick  and 
high  to  build  the  dome  of  his  waterside  cottage, 
in  order  to  protect  himself  against  the  frost  of 
the  coming  winter  and  the  floods  of  the  follow 
ing  spring.  The  woodchuck's  house  has  two  or 
three  doors ;  and  the  squirrel's  dwelling  is  pro 
vided  with  a  good  bed  and  a  convenient  store 
house  for  nuts  and  acorns.  The  sportive  otters 
have  a  toboggan  slide  in  front  of  their  residence ; 
and  the  moose  in  winter  make  a  "  yard,"  where 
they  can  take  exercise  comfortably  and  find 
shelter  for  sleep.  But  there  is  one  thing  lack 
ing  in  all  these  various  dwellings,  —  a  fireplace. 

Man  is  the  only  creature  that  dares  to  light  a 
fire  and  to  live  with  it.  The  reason  ?  Because 
he  alone  has  learned  how  to  put  it  out. 

It  is  true  that  two  of  his  humbler  friends  have 
been  converted  to  fire-worship.  The  dog  and 
the  cat,  being  half -humanized,  have  begun  to 
love  the  fire.  I  suppose  that  a  cat  seldom  comes 
so  near  to  feeling  a  true  sense  of  affection  as 
when  she  has  finished  her  saucer  of  bread  and 
208 


THE  OPEN  FIEE 

milk,  and  stretched  herself  luxuriously  under 
neath  the  kitchen  stove,  while  her  faithful  mis 
tress  washes  up  the  dishes.  As  for  a  dog,  I  am 
sure  that  his  admiring  love  for  his  master  is 
never  greater  than  when  they  come  in  together 
from  the  hunt,  wet  and  tired,  and  the  man  gath 
ers  a  pile  of  wood  in  front  of  the  tent,  touches  it 
with  a  tiny  magic  wand,  and  suddenly  the  clear, 
consoling  flame  springs  up,  saying  cheerfully, 
"  Here  we  are,  at  home  in  the  forest ;  come  into 
the  warmth ;  rest,  and  eat,  and  sleep."  When 
the  weary,  shivering  dog  sees  this  miracle,  he 
knows  that  his  master  is  a  great  man  and  a  lord 
of  things. 

After  all,  that  is  the  only  real  open  fire. 
Wood  is  the  fuel  for  it.  Out-of-doors  is  the 
place  for  it.  A  furnace  is  an  underground 
prison  for  a  toiling  slave.  A  stove  is  a  cage  for 
a  tame  bird.  Even  a  broad  hearthstone  and  a 
pair  of  glittering  andirons  —  the  best  ornament 
of  a  room  —  must  be  accepted  as  an  imitation 
of  the  real  thing.  The  veritable  open  fire  is 
built  in  the  open,  with  the  whole  earth  for  a 
fireplace  and  the  sky  for  a  chimney. 

To  start  a  fire  in  the  open  is  by  no  means  as 
easy  as  it  looks.  It  is  one  of  those  simple  tricks 
that  every  one  thinks  he  can  perform  until  he 
tries  it. 

To  do  it  without  trying,  —  accidentally  and 
209 


THE  OPEN  FIRE 

unwillingly,  —  that,  of  course,  is  a  thing  for 
which  any  fool  is  fit.  You  knock  out  the  ashes 
from  your  pipe  on  a  fallen  log  ;  you  toss  the  end 
of  a  match  into  a  patch  of  grass,  green  on  top, 
but  dry  as  punk  underneath  ;  you  scatter  the 
dead  brands  of  an  old  fire  among  the  moss,  —  a 
conflagration  is  under  way  before  you  know  it. 

A  fire  in  the  woods  is  one  thing ;  a  comfort 
and  a  joy.  Fire  in  the  woods  is  another  thing ; 
a  terror,  an  uncontrollable  fury,  a  burning 
shame. 

But  the  lighting  up  of  a  proper  fire,  kindly, 
approachable,  serviceable,  docile,  is  a  work  of 
intelligence.  If,  perhaps,  you  have  to  do  it  in 
the  rain,  with  a  single  match,  it  requires  no 
little  art  and  skill. 

There  is  plenty  of  wood  everywhere,  but 
not  a  bit  to  burn.  The  fallen  trees  are  water 
logged.  The  dead  leaves  are  as  damp  as  grief. 
The  charred  sticks  that  you  find  in  an  old  fire 
place  are  absolutely  incombustible.  Do  not  trust 
the  handful  of  withered  twigs  and  branches 
that  you  gather  from  the  spruce-trees.  They 
seem  dry,  but  they  are  little  better  for  your 
purpose  than  so  much  asbestos.  You  make  a 
pile  of  them  in  some  apparently  suitable  hollow, 
and  lay  a  few  larger  sticks  on  top.  Then  you 
hastily  scratch  your  solitary  match  on  the  seat 
of  your  trousers  and  thrust  it  into  the  pile  of 
210 


THE  OPEN  FIRE 

twigs.  What  happens  ?  The  wind  whirls  around 
in  your  stupid  little  hollow,  and  the  blue  flame 
of  the  sulphur  spirts  and  sputters  for  an  instant, 
and  then  goes  out.  Or  perhaps  there  is  a  mo 
ment  of  stillness ;  the  match  flares  up  bravely ; 
the  nearest  twigs  catch  fire,  crackling  and  spar 
kling  ;  you  hurriedly  lay  on  more  sticks ;  but  the 
fire  deliberately  dodges  them,  creeps  to  the  cor 
ner  of  the  pile  where  the  twigs  are  fewest  and 
dampest,  snaps  feebly  a  few  times,  and  expires 
in  smoke.  Now  where  are  you  ?  How  far  is  it 
to  the  nearest  match  ? 

If  you  are  wise,  you  will  always  make  your 
fire  before  you  light  it.  Time  is  never  saved  by 
doing  a  thing  badly. 

II 

THE    CAMP-FIRE 

In  the  making  of  fires  there  is  as  much  dif 
ference  as  in  the  building  of  houses.  Every 
thing  depends  upon  the  purpose  that  you  have 
in  view.  There  is  the  camp-fire,  and  the  cooking- 
fire,  and  the  smudge-fire,  and  the  little  friend 
ship-fire,  —  not  to  speak  of  other  minor  varie 
ties.  Each  of  these  has  its  own  proper  style  of 
architecture,  and  to  mix  them  is  false  art  and 
poor  economy. 

The  object  of  the  camp-fire  is  to  give  heat, 
211 


THE  OPEN  FIRE 

and  incidentally  light,  to  your  tent  or  shanty. 
You  can  hardly  build  this  kind  of  a  fire  unless 
you  have  a  good  axe  and  know  how  to  chop. 
For  the  first  thing  that  you  need  is  a  solid  back 
log,  the  thicker  the  better,  to  hold  the  heat  and 
reflect  it  into  the  tent.  This  log  must  not  be 
too  dry,  or  it  will  burn  out  quickly.  Neither 
must  it  be  too  damp,  else  it  will  smoulder  and 
discourage  the  fire.  The  best  wood  for  it  is  the 
body  of  a  yellow  birch,  and,  next  to  that,  a  green 
balsam.  It  should  be  five  or  six  feet  long,  and 
at  least  two  and  half  feet  in  diameter.  If  you 
cannot  find  a  tree  thick  enough,  cut  two  or 
three  lengths  of  a  smaller  one ;  lay  the  thickest 
log  on  the  ground  first,  about  ten  or  twelve  feet 
in  front  of  the  tent ;  drive  two  strong  stakes 
behind  it,  slanting  a  little  backward;  and  lay 
the  other  logs  on  top  of  the  first,  resting  against 
the  stakes. 

Now  you  are  ready  for  the  hand-chunks,  or 
andirons.  These  are  shorter  sticks  of  wood, 
eight  or  ten  inches  thick,  laid  at  right  angles 
to  the  backlog,  four  or  five  feet  apart.  Across 
these  you  are  to  build  up  the  firewood  proper. 

Use  a  dry  spruce-tree,  not  one  that  has  fallen, 
but  one  that  is  dead  and  still  standing,  if  you 
want  a  lively,  snapping  fire.  Use  a  hard  maple 
or  a  hickory  if  you  want  a  fire  that  will  burn 
steadily  and  make  few  sparks.  But  if  you  like 
212 


THE  OPEN  FIRE 

a  fire  to  blaze  up  at  first  with  a  splendid  flame, 
and  then  burn  on  with  an  enduring  heat  far  into 
the  night,  a  young  white  birch  with  the  bark  on 
is  the  tree  to  choose.  Six  or  eight  round  sticks 
of  this  laid  across  the  hand-chunks,  with  perhaps 
a  few  quarterings  of  a  larger  tree,  will  make  a 
glorious  fire. 

But  before  you  put  these  on,  you  must  be 
ready  to  light  up.  A  few  splinters  of  dry  spruce 
or  pine  or  balsam,  stood  endwise  against  the 
backlog,  or,  better  still,  piled  up  in  a  pyramid 
between  the  hand-chunks ;  a  few  strips  of  birch- 
bark  ;  and  one  good  match,  —  these  are  all  that 
you  want.  But  be  sure  that  your  match  is  a 
good  one.  You  would  better  see  to  this  before 
you  go  into  the  brush.  Your  comfort,  even  your 
life,  may  depend  on  it. 

"  Avec  ces  allumettes-la"  said  my  guide  at 
Lac  St.  Jean  one  day,  as  he  vainly  tried  to  light 
his  pipe  with  a  box  of  parlour  matches  from  the 
hotel,  —  "  avec  ces  gnoynottes  cFallumettes  on 
pourra  mourir  au  bois  !  " 

In  the  woods,  the  old-fashioned  brimstone 
match  of  our  grandfathers  —  the  match  with  a 
brown  head  and  a  stout  stick  and  a  dreadful 
smell  —  is  the  best.  But  if  you  have  only  one, 
you  would  better  not  trust  even  that  to  light 
your  fire  directly.  Use  it  first  to  touch  off  a 
roll  of  birch-bark  which  you  hold  in  your  hand. 
213 


THE  OPEN  FIRE 

Then,  when  the  bark  is  well  alight,  crinkling 
and  curling,  push  it  under  the  heap  of  kindlings, 
give  the  flame  time  to  take  a  good  hold,  and  lay 
your  wood  over  it,  a  stick  at  a  time,  until  the 
whole  pile  is  blazing.  Now  your  fire  is  started. 
Your  friendly  little  gnome  with  the  red  hair  is 
ready  to  serve  you  through  the  night. 

He  will  dry  your  clothes  if  you  are  wet.  He 
will  cheer  you  up  if  you  are  despondent.  He 
will  diffuse  an  air  of  sociability  through  the 
camp,  and  draw  the  men  together  in  a  half 
circle  for  story-telling  and  jokes  and  singing. 
He  will  hold  a  flambeau  for  you  while  you 
spread  your  blankets  on  the  boughs  and  dress 
for  bed.  He  will  keep  you  warm  while  you 
sleep,  —  at  least  till  about  three  o'clock  in  the 
morning,  when  you  dream  that  you  are  out 
sleighing  in  your  pajamas,  and  wake  up  with  a 
shiver. 

"  Hola,  Ferdinand,  Francois  !  "  you  call  out 
from  your  bed,  pulling  the  blankets  over  your 
ears  ;  "  Ramanchez  lefeu,  s'il  vous  plait.  C'est 
unfreite  de  chien" 

m 

THE   COOKING-FIRE 

Of  course  such  a  fire  as  I  have  been  describ 
ing  can  be  used  for  cooking,  when  it  has  burned 
down  a  little,  and  there  is  a  bed  of  hot  embers 
214 


THE  OPEN  FIBE 

in  front  of  the  backlog.  But  a  correct  kitchen 
fire  should  be  constructed  after  another  fashion. 
What  you  want  now  is  not  blaze,  but  heat,  and 
that  not  diffused,  but  concentrated.  You  must 
be  able  to  get  close  to  your  fire  without  burning 
your  boots  or  scorching  your  face. 

If  you  have  time  and  the  material,  make  a 
fireplace  of  big  stones.  But  not  of  granite,  for 
that  will  split  with  the  heat,  and  perhaps  fly  in 
your  face. 

If  you  are  in  a  hurry  and  there  are  no  suit 
able  stones  at  hand,  lay  two  good  logs  nearly 
parallel  with  each  other,  a  foot  or  so  apart,  and 
build  your  fire  between  them.  For  a  cooking-fire, 
use  split  wood  in  short  sticks.  Let  the  first  sup 
ply  burn  to  glowing  coals  before  you  begin.  A 
frying-pan  that  is  lukewarm  one  minute  and  red- 
hot  the  next  is  the  abomination  of  desolation. 
If  you  want  black  toast,  have  it  made  before  a 
fresh,  sputtering,  blazing  heap  of  wood. 

In  fires,  as  in  men,  an  excess  of  energy  is  a 
lack  of  usefulness.  The  best  work  is  done 
without  many  sparks.  Just  enough  is  the  right 
kind  of  a  fire  and  a  feast. 

To  know  how  to  cook  is  not  a  very  elegant  ac 
complishment.  Yet  there  are  times  and  seasons 
when  it  seems  to  come  in  better  than  familiarity 
with  the  dead  languages,  or  much  skill  upon 
the  lute. 

215 


THE  OPEN  FIEE 

You  cannot  always  rely  on  your  guides  for 
a  tasteful  preparation  of  food.  Many  of  them 
are  ignorant  of  the  difference  between  frying 
and  broiling,  and  their  notion  of  boiling  a  po 
tato  or  a  fish  is  to  reduce  it  to  a  pulp.  Now 
and  then  you  find  a  man  who  has  a  natural  in 
clination  to  the  culinary  art,  and  who  does  very 
well  within  familiar  limits. 

Old  Edouard,  the  Montaignais  Indian  who 
cooked  for  my  friends  H.  E.  G.  and  C.  S.  D. 
last  summer  on  the  Ste.  Marguerite  en  5as,  was 
such  a  man.  But  Edouard  could  not  read,  and 
the  only  way  he  could  tell  the  nature  of  the 
canned  provisions  was  by  the  pictures  on  the 
cans.  If  the  picture  was  strange  to  him,  there 
was  no  guessing  what  he  would  do  with  the  con 
tents  of  the  can.  He  was  capable  of  roasting 
strawberries,  and  serving  green  peas  cold  for 
dessert.  One  day  a  can  of  mullagatawny  soup 
and  a  can  of  apricots  were  handed  out  to  him 
simultaneously  and  without  explanations.  Ed 
ouard  solved  the  problem  by  opening  both  cans 
and  cooking  them  together.  We  had  a  new 
soup  that  day,  mullgatawny  aux  apricots.  It 
was  not  as  bad  as  it  sounds.  It  tasted  some 
what  like  chutney. 

The  real  reason  why  food  that  is  cooked  over 
an  open  fire  tastes  so  good  to  us  is  because  we 
are  really  hungry  when  we  get  it.  The  man 
216 


THE  OPEN  FIRE 

who  puts  up  provisions  for  camp  has  a  great 
advantage  over  the  dealers  who  must  satisfy  the 
pampered  appetite  of  people  in  houses.  I  never 
can  get  any  bacon  in  New  York  like  that  which 
I  buy  at  a  little  shop  in  Quebec  to  take  into  the 
woods.  If  I  ever  set  up  in  the  grocery  business, 
I  shall  try  to  get  a  good  trade  among  anglers. 
It  will  be  easy  to  please  my  customers. 

The  reputation  that  trout  enjoy  as  a  food-fish 
is  partly  due  to  the  fact  that  they  are  usually 
cooked  over  an  open  fire.  In  the  city  they  never 
taste  as  good.  It  is  not  merely  a  difference  in 
freshness.  It  is  a  change  in  the  sauce.  If  the 
truth  must  be  told,  even  by  an  angler,  there  are 
at  least  five  salt-water  fish  which  are  better  than 
trout,  —  to  eat.  There  is  none  better  to  catch. 

IV 

THE   SMUDGE-FIRE! 

But  enough  of  the  cooking-fire.  Let  us  turn 
now  to  the  subject  of  the  smudge,  known  in 
Lower  Canada  as  la  boucane.  The  smudge 
owes  its  existence  to  the  pungent  mosquito,  the 
sanguinary  black-fly,  and  the  peppery  midge,  — 
le  maringouin,  la  moustique,  et  le  brulot.  To 
what  it  owes  its  English  name  I  do  not  know ; 
but  its  French  name  means  simply  a  thick,  nau 
seating,  intolerable  smoke. 
217 


THE  OPEN  FIRE 

The  smudge  is  called  into  being  for  the  ex* 
press  purpose  of  creating  a  smoke  of  this  kind, 
which  is  as  disagreeable  to  the  mosquito,  the 
black-fly,  and  the  midge  as  it  is  to  the  man 
whom  they  are  devouring.  But  the  man  sur 
vives  the  smoke,  while  the  insects  succumb  to 
it,  being  destroyed  or  driven  away.  Therefore 
the  smudge,  dark  and  bitter  in  itself,  frequently 
becomes,  like  adversity,  sweet  in  its  uses.  It 
must  be  regarded  as  a  form  of  fire  with  which 
man  has  made  friends  under  the  pressure  of  a 
cruel  necessity. 

It  would  seem  as  if  it  ought  to  be  the  simplest 
affair  in  the  world  to  light  up  a  smudge.  And 
so  it  is  —  if  you  are  not  trying. 

An  attempt  to  produce  almost  any  other  kind 
of  a  fire  will  bring  forth  smoke  abundantly. 
But  when  you  deliberately  undertake  to  create 
a  smudge,  flames  break  from  the  wettest  timber, 
and  green  moss  blazes  with  a  furious  heat.  You 
hastily  gather  handf  uls  of  seemingly  incombusti 
ble  material  and  throw  it  on  the  fire,  but  the  con 
flagration  increases.  Grass  and  green  leaves 
hesitate  for  an  instant  and  then  flash  up  like 
tinder.  The  more  you  put  on,  the  more  your 
smudge  rebels  against  its  proper  task  of  smudg 
ing.  It  makes  a  pleasant  warmth,  to  encour 
age  the  black-flies ;  and  bright  light  to  attract 


21$ 


THE  OPEN  FIEE 

and  cheer  the  mosquitoes.  Your  effort  is  a  bril 
liant  failure. 

The  proper  way  to  make  a  smudge  is  this. 
Begin  with  a  very  little,  lowly  fire.  Let  it  be 
bright,  but  not  ambitious.  Don't  try  to  make  a 
smoke  yet. 

Then  gather  a  good  supply  of  stuff  which 
seems  likely  to  suppress  fire  without  smothering 
it.  Moss  of  a  certain  kind  will  do,  but  not  the 
soft,  feathery  moss  that  grows  so  deep  among 
the  spruce-trees.  Half-decayed  wood  is  good ; 
spoiigy,  moist,  unpleasant  stuff,  a  vegetable  wet 
blanket.  The  bark  of  dead  evergreen  trees, 
hemlock,  spruce,  or  balsam,  is  better  still. 
Gather  a  plentiful  store  of  it.  But  don't  try 
to  make  a  smoke  yet. 

Let  your  fire  burn  a  while  longer  ;  cheer  it 
up  a  little.  Get  some  clear,  resolute,  unquench 
able  coals  aglow  in  the  heart  of  it.  Don't  try 
to  make  a  smoke  yet. 

Now  pile  on  your  smouldering  fuel.  Fan  it 
with  your  hat.  Kneel  down  and  blow  it,  and  in 
ten  minutes  you  will  have  a  smoke  that  will 
make  you  wish  you  had  never  been  born. 

That  is  the  proper  way  to  make  a  smudge. 
But  the  easiest  way  is  to  ask  your  guide  to  make 
it  for  you. 

If  he  makes  it  in  an  old  iron  pot,  so  much  the 
better,  for  then  you  can  move  it  around  to  the 
219 


TEE  OPEN  FIRE 

windward  when  the  breeze  veers,  and  carry  it 
into  your  tent  without  risk  of  setting  everything 
on  fire,  and  even  take  it  with  you  in  the  canoe 
while  you  are  fishing. 

Some  of  the  pleasantest  pictures  in  the  angler's 
gallery  of  remembrance  are  framed  in  the  smoke 
that  rises  from  a  smudge. 

With  my  eyes  shut,  I  can  call  up  a  vision  of 
eight  birch-bark  canoes  floating  side  by  side 
on  Moosehead  Lake,  on  a  fair  June  morning, 
fifteen  years  ago.  They  are  anchored  off  Green 
Island,  riding  easily  on  the  long,  gentle  waves. 
In  the  stern  of  each  canoe  there  is  a  guide  with 
a  long-handled  net ;  in  the  bow,  an  angler  with 
a  light  fly-rod  ;  in  the  middle,  a  smudge-kettle, 
smoking  steadily.  In  the  air  to  the  windward  of 
the  little  fleet  hovers  a  swarm  of  flies,  drifting 
down  on  the  shore  breeze,  with  bloody  purpose 
in  their  breasts,  but  baffled  by  the  protecting 
smoke.  In  the  water  to  the  leeward  plays  a 
school  of  speckled  trout,  feeding  on  the  min 
nows  that  hang  around  the  sunken  ledges  of 
rock.  As  a  larger  wave  than  usual  passes  over 
the  ledges,  it  lifts  the  fish  up,  and  you  can  see 
the  big  fellows,  three,  and  four,  and  even  five 
pounds  apiece,  poising  themselves  in  the  clear 
brown  water.  A  long  cast  will  send  the  fly  over 
one  of  them.  Let  it  sink  a  foot.  Draw  it  up 
with  a  fluttering  motion.  Now  the  fish  sees  it, 
220 


THE  OPEN  FIBE 

and  turns  to  catch  it.  There  is  a  yellow  gleam 
in  the  depth,  a  sudden  swirl  on  the  surface  ;  you 
strike  sharply,  and  the  trout  is  matching  his 
strength  against  the  spring  of  your  four  ounces 
of  split  bamboo. 

You  can  guess  at  his  size,  as  he  breaks  water, 
by  the  breadth  of  his  tail :  a  pound  of  weight 
to  an  inch  of  tail,  —  that  is  the  traditional  mea 
sure,  and  it  usually  comes  pretty  close  to  the 
mark,  at  least  in  the  case  of  large  fish.  But  it 
is  never  safe  to  record  the  weight  until  the 
trout  is  in  the  canoe.  As  the  Canadian  hunters 
say,  "  Sell  not  the  skin  of  the  bear  while  he 
carries  it." 

Now  the  breeze  that  blows  over  Green  Island 
drops  away,  and  the  smoke  of  the  eight  smudge- 
kettles  falls  like  a  thick  curtain.  The  canoes, 
the  dark  shores  of  Norcross  Point,  the  twin 
peaks  of  Spencer  Mountain,  the  dim  blue  sum 
mit  of  Katahdin,  the  dazzling  sapphire  sky,  the 
flocks  of  fleece-white  clouds  shepherded  on  high 
by  the  western  wind,  all  have  vanished.  With 
closed  eyes  I  see  another  vision,  still  framed  in 
smoke,  —  a  vision  of  yesterday. 

It  is  a  wild  river  flowing  into  the  Gulf  of  St. 
Lawrence,  on  the  Cote  Nord,  far  down  towards 
Labrador.  There  is  a  long,  narrow,  swift  pool 
between  two  parallel  ridges  of  rock.  Over  the 
ridge  on  the  right  pours  a  cataract  of  pale  yel- 
221 


THE  OPEN  FIEE 

low  foam.  At  the  bottom  of  the  pool,  the  water 
slides  down  into  a  furious  rapid,  and  dashes 
straight  through,  an  impassable  gorge  half  a 
mile  to  the  sea.  The  pool  is  full  of  salmon, 
leaping  merrily  in  their  delight  at  coming  into 
their  native  stream.  The  air  is  full  of  black- 
flies,  rejoicing  in  the  warmth  of  the  July  sun. 
On  a  slippery  point  of  rock,  below  the  fall,  are 
two  anglers,  tempting  the  fish  and  enduring  the 
flies.  Behind  them  is  an  old  habitant  raising  a 
mighty  column  of  smoke. 

Through  the  cloudy  pillar  which  keeps  back 
the  Egyptian  host,  you  see  the  waving  of  a 
long  rod.  A  silver-gray  fly  with  a  barbed  tail 
darts  out  across  the  pool,  swings  around  with 
the  current,  well  under  water,  and  slowly  works 
past  the  big  rock  in  the  centre,  just  at  the  head 
of  the  rapid.  Almost  past  it,  but  not  quite  :  for 
suddenly  the  fly  disappears ;  the  line  begins  to 
run  out ;  the  reel  sings  sharp  and  shrill ;  a 
salmon  is  hooked. 

But  how  well  is  he  hooked?  That  is  the 
question.  This  is  no  easy  pool  to  play  a  fish  in. 
There  is  no  chance  to  jump  into  a  canoe  and 
drop  below  him,  and  get  the  current  to  help  you 
in  drowning  him.  You  cannot  follow  him  along 
the  shore.  You  cannot  even  lead  him  into  quiet 
water,  where  the  gaffer  can  creep  near  to  him 
unseen  and  drag  him  in  with  a  quick  stroke. 
222 


A  little  river  in  Labrador.' 


THE  OPEN  FIRE 

You  must  fight  your  fish  to  a  finish,  and  all 
the  advantages  are  on  his  side.  The  current  is 
terribly  strong.  If  he  makes  up  his  mind  to  go 
downstream  to  the  sea,  the  only  thing  you  can 
do  is  to  hold  him  by  main  force  ;  and  then  it  is 
ten  to  one  that  the  hook  tears  out  or  the  leader 
breaks. 

It  is  not  in  human  nature  for  one  man  to 
watch  another  handling  a  fish  in  such  a  place 
without  giving  advice.  "  Keep  the  tip  of  your 
rod  up.  Don't  let  your  reel  overrun.  Stir  him 
up  a  little,  he  's  sulking.  Don't  let  him  '  jig,'  or 
you  '11  loose  him.  You  're  playing  him  too  hard. 
There,  he  's  going  to  jump  again.  Drop  your 
tip.  Stop  him,  quick!  he's  going  down  the 
rapid!" 

Of  course  the  man  who  is  playing  the  salmon 
does  not  like  this.  If  he  is  quick-tempered, 
sooner  or  later  he  tells  his  counsellor  to  shut  up. 
But  if  he  is  a  gentle,  early-Christian  kind  of 
a  man,  wise  as  a  serpent  and  harmless  as  a 
dove,  he  follows  the  advice  that  is  given  to  him, 
promptly  and  exactly.  Then,  when  it  is  all 
ended,  and  he  has  seen  the  big  fish,  with  the 
line  over  his  shoulder,  poised  for  an  instant  on 
the  crest  of  the  first  billow  of  the  rapid,  and  has 
felt  the  leader  stretch  and  give  and  snap!  — 
then  he  can  have  the  satisfaction,  while  he  reels 
in  his  slack  line,  of  saying  to  his  friend,  "  Well, 
223 


THE  OPEN  FIRE 

old  man,  I  did  everything  just  as  you  told  met 
But  I  think  if  I  had  pushed  that  fish  a  little 
harder  at  the  beginning,  as  I  wanted  to,  I  might 
have  saved  him." 

But  really,  of  course,  the  chances  were  all 
against  it.  In  such  a  pool,  most  of  the  larger 
fish  get  away.  Their  weight  gives  them  a  tre 
mendous  pull.  The  fish  that  are  stopped  from 
going  into  the  rapid,  and  dragged  back  from 
the  curling  wave,  are  usually  the  smaller  ones. 
Here  they  are,  —  twelve  pounds,  eight  pounds, 
six  pounds,  five  pounds  and  a  half,  four  pounds  ! 
Is  not  this  the  smallest  salmon  that  you  ever  saw  ? 
Not  a  grilse,  you  understand,  but  a  real  salmon, 
of  brightest  silver,  hall-marked  with  St.  Andrew's 
cross. 

Now  let  us  sit  down  for  a  moment  and  watch 
the  fish  trying  to  leap  up  the  falls.  There  is  a 
clear  jump  of  about  ten  feet,  and  above  that  an 
apparently  impossible  climb  of  ten  feet  more 
up  a  ladder  of  twisting  foam.  A  salmon  darts 
from  the  boiling  water  at  the  bottom  of  the  fall 
like  an  arrow  from  a  bow.  He  rises  in  a  beau 
tiful  curve,  fins  laid  close  to  his  body  and  tail 
quivering ;  but  he  has  miscalculated  his  dis 
tance.  He  is  on  the  downward  curve  when  the 
water  strikes  him  and  tumbles  him  back.  A 
bold  little  fish,  not  more  than  eighteen  inches 
long,  makes  a  jump  at  the  side  of  the  fall,  where 
224 


THE  OPEN  FIEE 

the  water  is  thin,  and  is  rolled  over  and  over  in 
the  spray.  A  larger  salmon  rises  close  beside 
us  with  a  tremendous  rush,  bumps  his  nose 
against  a  jutting  rock,  and  flops  back  into  the 
pool.  Now  comes  a  fish  who  has  made  his  cal 
culations  exactly.  He  leaves  the  pool  about 
eight  feet  from  the  foot  of  the  fall,  rises  swiftly, 
spreads  his  fins,  and  curves  his  tail  as  if  he 
were  flying,  strikes  the  water  where  it  is  thickest 
just  below  the  brink,  holds  on  desperately,  and 
drives  himself,  with  one  last  wriggle,  through  the 
bending  stream,  over  the  edge,  and  up  the  first 
step  of  the  foaming  stairway.  He  has  obeyed 
the  strongest  instinct  of  his  nature,  and  gone 
up  to  make  love  in  the  highest  fresh  water  that 
he  can  reach. 

The  smoke  of  the  smudge-fire  is  sharp  and 
tearful,  but  a  man  can  learn  to  endure  a  good 
deal  of  it  when  he  can  look  through  its  rings 
at  such  scenes  as  these. 

V 

THE  LITTLE  FKIENDSHIP-ITRE 

There  are  times  and  seasons  when  the  angler 
has  no  need  of  any  of  the  three  fires  of  which 
we  have  been  talking.  He  sleeps  in  a  house. 
His  breakfast  and  dinner  are  cooked  for  him  in 
a  kitchen.  He  is  in  no  great  danger  from  black- 
225 


THE  OPEN  FIRE 

flies  or  mosquitoes.  All  he  needs  now,  as  he 
sets  out  to  spend  a  day  on  the  Neversink,  or  the 
Willowemoc,  or  the  Shepaug,  or  the  Swiftwater, 
is  a  good  lunch  in  his  pocket,  and  a  little  friend 
ship-fire  to  burn  pleasantly  beside  him  while  he 
eats  his  frugal  fare  and  prolongs  his  noonday 
rest. 

This  form  of  fire  does  less  work  than  any 
other  in  the  world.  Yet  it  is  far  from  being 
useless ;  and  I,  for  one,  should  be  sorry  to  live 
without  it.  Its  only  use  is  to  make  a  visible 
centre  of  interest  where  there  are  two  or  three 
anglers  eating  their  lunch  together,  or  to  supply 
a  kind  of  companionship  to  a  lone  fisherman. 
It  is  kindled  and  burns  for  no  other  purpose 
than  to  give  you  the  sense  of  being  at  home  and 
at  ease.  Why  the  fire  should  do  this,  I  cannot 
tell,  but  it  does. 

You  may  build  your  friendship-fire  in  almost 
any  way  that  pleases  you ;  but  this  is  the  way  in 
which  you  shall  build  it  best.  You  have  no  axe, 
of  course,  so  you  must  look  about  for  the  driest 
sticks  that  you  can  find.  Do  not  seek  them 
close  beside  the  stream,  for  there  they  are  likely 
to  be  water-soaked ;  but  go  back  into  the  woods 
a  bit  and  gather  a  good  armful  of  fuel.  Then 
break  it,  if  you  can,  into  lengths  of  about  two 
feet,  and  construct  your  fire  in  the  following 
fashion. 

226 


"The  little  friendship  fire. 


THE  OPEN  FIRE 

Lay  two  sticks  parallel,  and  put  between  them 
a  pile  of  dried  grass,  dead  leaves,  small  twigs, 
and  the  paper  in  which  your  lunch  was  wrapped. 
Then  lay  two  other  sticks  crosswise  on  top  of 
your  first  pair.  Strike  your  match  and  touch 
your  kindlings.  As  the  fire  catches,  lay  on  other 
pairs  of  sticks,  each  pair  crosswise  to  the  pair 
that  is  below  it,  until  you  have  a  pyramid  of 
flame.  This  is  "a  Micmac  fire"  such  as  the 
Indians  make  in  the  woods. 

Now  you  can  pull  off  your  wading-boots  and 
warm  your  feet  at  the  blaze.  You  can  toast 
your  bread  if  you  like.  You  can  even  make 
shift  to  broil  one  of  your  trout,  fastened  on  the 
end  of  a  birch  twig  if  you  have  a  fancy  that 
way.  When  your  hunger  is  satisfied,  you  shake 
out  the  crumbs  for  the  birds  and  the  squirrels, 
pick  up  a  stick  with  a  coal  at  the  end  to  light 
your  pipe,  put  some  more  wood  on  your  fire,  and 
settle  down  for  an  hour's  reading  if  you  have  a 
book  in  your  pocket,  or  for  a  good  talk  if  you 
have  a  comrade  with  you. 

The  stream  of  time  flows  swift  and  smooth, 
by  such  a  fire  as  this.  The  moments  slip  past 
unheeded ;  the  sun  sinks  down  his  western 
arch ;  the  shadows  begin  to  fall  across  the 
brook ;  it  is  time  to  move  on  for  the  afternoon 
fishing.  The  fire  has  almost  burned  out.  But 
do  not  trust  it  too  much.  Throw  some  sand  over 
227 


THE  OPEN  FIRE 

it,  or  bring  a  hatful  of  water  from  the  brook  to 
pour  on  it,  until  you  are  sure  that  the  last  glow 
ing  ember  is  extinguished,  and  nothing  but  the 
black  coals  and  the  charred  ends  of  the  sticks 
are  left. 

Even  the  little  friendship-fire  must  keep  the 
law  of  the  bush.  All  lights  out  when  their  pur 
pose  is  fulfilled ! 

VI 

ALTARS   OF  REMEMBRANCE 

It  is  a  question  that  we  have  often  debated, 
in  the  informal  meetings  of  our  Petrine  Club  : 
Which  is  pleasanter,  —  to  fish  an  old  stream,  or 
a  new  one  ? 

The  younger  members  are  all  for  the  "fresh 
woods  and  pastures  new."  They  speak  of  the 
delight  of  turning  off  from  the  high-road  into 
some  faintly-marked  trail ;  following  it  blindly 
through  the  forest,  not  knowing  how  far  you 
have  to  go ;  hearing  the  voice  of  waters  sounding 
through  the  woodland ;  leaving  the  path  impa 
tiently  and  striking  straight  across  the  under 
brush  ;  scrambling  down  a  steep  bank,  pushing 
through  a  thicket  of  alders,  and  coming  out 
suddenly,  face  to  face  with  a  beautiful,  strange 
brook.  It  reminds  you,  of  course,  of  some  old 
friend.  It  is  a  little  like  the  Beaverkill,  or  the 
228 


THE  OPEN  FIEE 

Ausable,  or  the  Gale  River.  And  yet  it  is  dif 
ferent.  Every  stream  has  its  own  character  and 
disposition.  Your  new  acquaintance  invites  you 
to  a  day  of  discoveries.  If  the  water  is  high, 
you  will  follow  it  down,  and  have  easy  fishing. 
If  the  water  is  low,  you  will  go  upstream,  and 
fish  "  fine  and  far-off."  Every  turn  in  the  ave 
nue  which  the  little  river  has  made  for  you 
opens  up  a  new  view,  —  a  rocky  gorge  where  the 
deep  pools  are  divided  by  white-footed  falls ;  a 
lofty  forest  where  the  shadows  are  deep  and 
the  trees  arch  overhead;  a  flat,  sunny  stretch 
where  the  stream  is  spread  out,  and  pebbly 
islands  divide  the  channels,  and  the  big  fish 
are  lurking  at  the  sides  in  the  sheltered  corners 
under  the  bushes.  From  scene  to  scene  you  fol 
low  on,  delighted  and  expectant,  until  the  night 
suddenly  drops  its  veil,  and  then  you  will  be 
lucky  if  you  can  find  your  way  home  in  the 
dark! 

Yes,  it  is  all  very  good,  this  exploration  of 
new  streams.  But,  for  my  part,  I  like  still  bet 
ter  to  go  back  to  a  familiar  little  river,  and  fish 
or  dream  along  the  banks  where  I  have  dreamed 
and  fished  before.  I  know  every  bend  and  curve : 
the  sharp  turn  where  the  water  runs  under  the 
roots  of  the  old  hemlock-tree  ;  the  snaky  glen, 
where  the  alders  stretch  their  arms  far  out 
across  the  stream ;  the  meadow  reach,  where  the 
229 


THE  OPEN  FIRE 

trgut  are  fat  and  silvery,  and  will  only  rise 
about  sunrise  or  sundown,  unless  the  day  is 
cloudy ;  the  Naiad's  Elbow,  where  the  brook 
rounds  itself,  smooth  and  dimpled,  to  embrace 
a  cluster  of  pink  laurel-bushes.  All  these  I 
know ;  yes,  and  almost  every  current  and  eddy 
and  backwater  I  know  long  before  I  come  to  it. 
I  remember  where  I  caught  the  big  trout  the 
first  year  I  came  to  the  stream;  and  where  I 
lost  a  bigger  one.  I  remember  the  pool  where 
there  were  plenty  of  good  fish  last  year,  and 
wonder  whether  they  are  there  now. 

Better  things  than  these  I  remember :  the 
companions  with  whom  I  have  followed  the 
stream  in  days  long  past ;  the  rendezvous  with 
a  comrade  at  the  place  where  the  rustic  bridge 
crosses  the  brook ;  the  hours  of  sweet  converse 
beside  the  friendship-fire ;  the  meeting  at  twi 
light  with  my  lady  Graygown  and  the  children, 
who  have  come  down  by  the  wood-road  to  walk 
home  with  me. 

Surely  it  is  pleasant  to  follow  an  old  stream. 
Flowers  grow  along  its  banks  which  are  not 
to  be  found  anywhere  else  in  the  wide  world. 
"  There  is  rosemary,  that 's  for  remembrance ; 
and  there  is  pansies,  that 's  for  thoughts !  " 

One  May  evening,  a  couple  of  years  since,  I 
was  angling  in  the  Swiftwater,  and  came  upon 
Joseph  Jefferson,  stretched  out  on  a  large  rock 
230 


THE  OPEN  FIRE 

in  mid-stream,  and  casting  the  fly  down  a  long 
pool.  He  had  passed  the  threescore  years  and 
ten,  but  he  was  as  eager  and  as  happy  as  a  boy 
in  his  fishing. 

"  You  here  !  "  I  cried.  "  What  good  fortune 
brought  you  into  these  waters  ?  " 

"  Ah,"  he  answered,  "  I  fished  this  brook 
forty-five  years  ago.  It  was  in  the  Paradise 
Valley  that  I  first  thought  of  Rip  Van  Winkle. 
I  wanted  to  come  back  again,  for  the  sake  of 
old  times.'* 

But  what  has  all  this  to  do  with  an  open  fire  ? 
I  will  tell  you.  It  is  at  the  places  along  the 
stream,  where  the  little  flames  of  love  and  friend 
ship  have  been  kindled  in  bygone  days,  that  the 
past  returns  most  vividly.  These  are  the  altars 
of  remembrance. 

It  is  strange  how  long  a  small  fire  will  leave 
its  mark.  The  charred  sticks,  the  black  coals, 
do  not  decay  easily.  If  they  lie  well  up  the 
bank,  out  of  reach  of  the  spring  floods,  they 
will  stay  there  for  years.  If  you  have  chanced 
to  build  a  rough  fireplace  of  stones  from  the 
brook,  it  seems  almost  as  if  it  would  last  for 
ever. 

There  is  a  mossy  knoll  beneath  a  great  but 
ternut-tree  on  the  Swif twater  where  such  a  fire 
place  was  built  four  years  ago;  and  whenever  I 
come  to  that  place  now  I  lay  the  rod  aside,  and 
231 


THE  OPEN  FIEE 

sit  down  for  a  little  while  by  the  fast-flowing 
water,  and  remember. 

This  is  what  I  see :  A  man  wading  up  the 
stream,  with  a  creel  over  his  shoulder,  and  per 
haps  a  dozen  trout  in  it ;  two  little  lads  in 
gray  corduroys  running  down  the  path  through 
the  woods  to  meet  him,  one  carrying  a  frying- 
pan  and  a  kettle,  the  other  with  a  basket  of 
lunch  on  his  arm.  Then  I  see  the  bright  flames 
leaping  up  in  the  fireplace,  and  hear  the  trout 
sizzling  in  the  pan,  and  smell  the  appetizing 
odour.  Now  I  see  the  lads  coming  back  across 
the  foot-bridge  that  spans  the  stream,  with  a 
bottle  of  milk  from  the  nearest  farmhouse. 
They  are  laughing  and  teetering  as  they  balance 
along  the  single  plank.  Now  the  table  is  spread 
on  the  moss.  How  good  the  lunch  tastes  !  Never 
were  there  such  pink-fleshed  trout,  such  crisp 
and  savoury  slices  of  broiled  bacon.  Douglas, 
(the  beloved  doll  that  the  younger  lad  shame 
facedly  brings  out  from  the  pocket  of  his 
jacket,)  must  certainly  have  some  of  it.  And 
after  the  lunch  is  finished,  and  the  bird's  portion 
has  been  scattered  on  the  moss,  we  creep  care 
fully  on  our  hands  and  knees  to  the  edge  of  the 
brook,  and  look  over  the  bank  at  the  big  trout 
that  is  poising  himself  in  the  amber  water.  We 
have  tried  a  dozen  times  to  catch  him,  but  never 

succeeded.     The  next  time,  perhaps 

232 


THE  OPEN  FIRE 

Well,  the  fireplace  is  still  standing.  The 
butternut-tree  spreads  its  broad  branches  above 
the  stream.  The  violets  and  the  bishop's-caps 
and  the  wild  anemones  are  sprinkled  over  the 
banks.  The  yellow-throat  and  the  water-thrush 
and  the  vireos  still  sing  the  same  tunes  in  the 
thicket.  And  the  elder  of  the  two  lads  often 
comes  back  with  me  to  that  pleasant  place  and 
shares  my  fisherman's  luck  beside  the  Swift- 
water. 

But  the  younger  lad  ? 

Ah,  my  little  Barney,  you  have  gone  to  follow 
a  new  stream,  —  clear  as  crystal,  —  flowing 
through  fields  of  wonderful  flowers  that  never 
fade.  It  is  a  strange  river  to  Teddy  and  me ; 
strange  and  very  far  away.  Some  day  we  shall 
see  it  with  you ;  and  you  will  teach  us  the  names 
of  those  blossoms  that  do  not  wither.  But  till 
then,  little  Barney,  the  other  lad  and  I  will 
follow  the  old  stream  that  flows  by  the  wood 
land  fireplace,  —  your  altar. 

Kue  grows  here.  Yes,  there  is  plenty  of  rue. 
But  there  is  also  rosemary,  that 's  for  remem 
brance  !  And  close  beside  it  I  see  a  little 
heart's-ease. 


233 


XII 
A  SLUMBER  SONG 


A  SLUMBER  SONG 
FOR  THE  FISHERMAN'S  CHILD 

FURL  your  sail,  my  little  boatie ; 

Here  's  the  haven,  still  and  deep, 
Where  the  dreaming  tides,  in-streaming, 

Up  the  channel  creep. 
See,  the  sunset  breeze  is  dying ; 
Hark,  the  plover,  landward  flying, 
Softly  down  the  twilight  crying ; 
Come  to  anchor,  little  boatie, 
In  the  port  of  Sleep. 

Far  away,  my  little  boatie, 

Roaring  waves  are  white  with  foam ; 
Ships  are  striving,  onward  driving, 

Day  and  night  they  roam. 
Father  Js  at  the  deep-sea  trawling, 
In  the  darkness,  rowing,  hauling, 
While  the  hungry  winds  are  calling,  — 
God  protect  him,  little  boatie, 
Bring  him  safely  home ! 

Not  for  you,  my  little  boatie, 
Is  the  wide  and  weary  sea ; 
237 


A  SLUMBER  SONG 

You  're  too  slender,  and  too  tender, 

You  must  rest  with  me. 
All  day  long  you  have  been  straying 
Up  and  down  the  shore  and  playing ; 
Come  to  port,  make  no  delaying ! 
Day  is  over,  little  boatie, 
Night  falls  suddenly. 

Furl  your  sail,  my  little  boatie ; 

Fold  your  wings,  my  tired  dove. 
Dews  are  sprinkling,  stars  are  twinkling 

Drowsily  above. 

Cease  from  sailing,  cease  from  rowing ; 
Rock  upon  the  dream-tide,  knowing 
Safely  o'er  your  rest  are  glowing, 
All  the  night,  my  little  boatie, 
Harbour-lights  of  love. 


GOME  TO  ANCHOR,LITTLE  BOATI 
IN  THE  PORT  OF  SLEEP. 


INDEX 


INDEX 


ADAM:  his  early  education,  84;  his 

opinion  of  woman,  107. 
"  Afghan's  Knife,  The,"  166. 
Algebra  :  the  equation  of  life,  12. 
"Alice  Lorraine,"  145. 
"  Along  New  England  Roads,"  142. 
Altars  of  remembrance,  231. 
"  Amateur  Angler's  Days  in  Dove 

Dale,  An,"  37,  140. 
"American  Angler's   Book,  The," 

142. 
"American  Salmon  Angler,  The,'' 

142. 

"Among  New  England  Hills,"  142. 
"Angler,    The     Compleat."      See 

Walton,  Izaak. 

Angler :  the  education  of  an,  109. 
"Angler's  Guide,  The,"  137. 
Angling :    an  affair   of   luck,   5;  a 

means    of    escape    from    txdium 

vitae,  13;  books  about,  classified, 

135,  137. 

"  Angling  Reminiscences  "  of  Thom 
as  Tod  Stoddart,  138. 
"  Angling  Sketches,"    by    Andrew 

Lang,  141. 
Antony :    deceived    by   Cleopatra, 

143. 
Arden,  the  Forest  of  :  direction  for 

reaching,  13. 
Ascension  Day :  good  for  fishing,  6. 

Bald  Mountain,  175. 

Banquets :  two  delectable  ones,  19, 
20. 

Baptists,  Seventh-Day:  an  induce 
ment  to  join  them,  6. 

Barber :  the  philosophic  conduct  of 
a,  14. 


Barker,  Thomas,  135. 
Bartlett,  Mr.  John  :  piscatorial  col 
lection  of,  134. 
Bergen  :  town  of,  160. 
Berries,  75;  Izaak  Walton  quoted 

on,  76. 
Bethune,   Rev.  Dr.  George  W.,  an 

editor  of  Walton,  142. 
Birds :   their   unexpectedness,    21 ; 
their  courage,  23, 194  ;  their  man 
ner  of  singing,  56-58,  73. 
Birds  named : 

Blue  jay,  188. 

Boblink,  71. 

Brown  thrasher,  58. 

Brown  thrush,  58. 

Catbird,  95,  188. 

Crow,  195. 

English  sparrow,  not  a  bird,  57 ; 
97. 

Grosbeak,  rose-breasted,  58. 

l-ooded  warbler,  22. 

Kingbird,  193,  194. 

Mockingbird,  58. 

Oriole,  58. 

Parrot,  56. 

Partridge,  23. 

Pigeon-hawk,  173. 

Redstart,  22. 

Robin,  58. 

Rose-breasted  grosbeak,  158. 

Ruffed  grouse,  23. 

Spotted  sandpiper,  23. 

Swallow,  174. 

Thrush,  174. 

Veery,  58. 

Vireos,  233. 

Water-thrush,  233. 

White-throat,  58. 


241 


INDEX 


Wood  thrush,  58. 
Wren,  58. 

Yellow-throat,  173,  233. 
Yellow  warblers,  95. 

Black,  William :  his  knowledge  of 
angling,  147. 

Blackmore,  R.  D.,  141;  fishing  de 
scribed  by,  145. 

"  Book  of  the  Black  Bass,"  142. 

Borgund  :  church  at,  160. 

Boyle,  Hon.  Robert,  139. 

Brogue :  as  an  ornament  of  speech, 
68. 

Brook :  a  lazy,  idle,  186;  in  the 
bower,  187  ;  considered  as  a  sign, 
191;  the  lesson  of  a,  195;  fishing 
in  a,  198. 

Browsing :  a  diversion  for  anglers, 
74. 

Burroughs,  John,  133. 

Butler,  Dr.  William :  his  pleasant 
saying  about  the  strawberry,  "3 ; 
his  character  as  a  physician  and  a 
philosopher,  77-79. 

"  By  Meadow  and  Stream,"  141. 

Byron,  Lord :  a  detractor  of  Wal 
ton,  132. 

Camp-fire:  the  art  of  kindling  a, 

211. 

Camping :  pleasures  of,  16. 
Cannon  Mountain,  175. 
"Chalk-Stream  Studies,"  139. 
Chance :  a  good  word  with  a  bad 

reputation,  11. 

Chatto,  William  Andrew,  125,  141. 
Cheerfulness  :  a  virtue  in  good  talk, 

69. 

Christian  character :  illustrated,  29. 
Civilization  :  a  nervous  disease,  191. 
Cleopatra,  143. 
"Cloister  and  the  Hearth,    The," 

101. 

Colquhoun,  John,  138. 
Conversation  :  compared  with  talk, 

13. 

Cook :  a  good,  216. 
Cooking-fire  :  the  art  of  kindling  a, 

214. 


Cotton,  Charles,  50, 135. 
Crinkle-root,  74. 
"Crocker's  Hole,"  141. 
Crosby,  Chancellor  Howard :  a  good 
talker,  17,  63. 

Davy,  Sir  Humphry :  slighted  by 
Christopher  North,  139. 

"  Days  in  Clover,"  141. 

Days  :  superstitions  about  them,  6. 

Denny s,  John  :  "  The  Secrets  of 
Angling,"  quoted,  5,  133. 

De  Peyster,  Mr.  and  Mrs. :  the  suc 
cess  of,  in  the  art  of  the  angler, 
109. 

De  Quincey,  Thomas,  135. 

Deucalion  :  the  first  artistic  fisher- 
man,  5. 

Dickinson,  Emily :  quoted,  83. 

Drivstuen,  167. 

Eagle  Cliff,  175. 
Elizabeth,  Queen,  78. 
Elk  :  the  Tarn  of  the,  165. 
Emerson,    Ralph    Waldo :  quoted, 

103. 
English  sparrows :  beasts,  not  birds, 

57. 
"Essays  Critical  and  Imaginative" 

of  Christopher  North,  138. 
Etnadal,  157. 
"  Ettrick  Shepherd,"  the,  50. 

Fagornaes,  161. 

Faleide,  164. 

Fawkes,  Guy,  78. 

Fire :  fear  of  animals  of,  207 ;  kin 
dling  a  fire  in  the  woods,  210  ;  the 
camp-fire,  211 ;  the  cooking-fire 
214  ;  the  smudge-fire,  217  ;  the 
little  friendship-fire,  225. 

Fish  :  their  waywardness,  42,  203 ; 
how  an  angler  feels  about  them, 
25 ;  whether  they  can  hear,  51-53 ; 
domesticated,  85. 

Fish  named : 

Grass-pike,  197. 
Grayling,  50,  168, 
Grilse,  224. 


242 


INDEX 


Ouananiche,  36,  37,  42,  48. 

Pickerel,  128. 

Pike,  10,  86. 

Salmon,  28,  36,  224. 

Sunfish,  197. 

Trout,  51,  53,  135, 145,  161,  166, 

168,  198,  201,  203,  217,  220. 
"Fishin'  Jimmy,"  142. 
Fishing  :  passim;  an  affair  of  luck, 
5;  lucky  days  for,  6  ;  a  means  of 
escape  from  routine,  13  ;  the  only 
eventful  mode  of  life,  15;  good 
luck  in,   deserving  of  gratitude, 
26;    the  schooling  of    a    woman 
angler,    109;     catching    pickerel 
through  the   ice,   128;   the   best 
winter    diversion    in-doors,    131 ; 
books  on,  135,  137  ;  fish  and  fish 
ing,  142 ;  in  old  streams  and  new, 
228. 
"Fish-Tails  and  a  Few    Others," 

140. 

Flies :  various  theories  for  the  use 
of,   41  ;    the  grasshopper   a    last 
hope,  43;  style  in,  135. 
Flowers  :  wild  and  tame,  83 ;  luck 

in  finding,  84. 
Flowers  named : 
Anemone,  233. 
Anemone,  double  rue,  84. 
Bishop's-cap,  233. 
Gentian,  fringed,  83. 
Hare-bells,  73. 
Heart's-ease,  233. 
Laurel,  mountain,  73. 
Loose-strife,  yellow,  73. 
Orchid,  purple-fringed,  73. 
Prince's  pine,  73. 
Rosemary,  230,  233. 
Rue,  233. 
Twin-flower,  74. 
Violet,  233. 
"  Fly-Fisher's   Entomology,   The," 

52. 

"Fly-Rods  and  Fly-Tackle,"  142. 
Fontainebleau,  85. 
Forester,  Frank,  142. 
Forests  :  real  and  artificial,  86. 
Fox :  red,  189. 


Franck,  Richard :    a  detractor   of 

Walton,  132. 

Franconia  Mountains,  174. 
Freedom  of  spirit :  an  essential  of 

good  company,  66. 
"  Fresh  Woods,"  141. 
Friendliness :  its  magical  power,  70. 
Friendship-fire,  the  little,  225. 

Gambling:  a  harmless  variety  of, 
10. 

"  Game  Fish  of  the  North,"  142. 

Garfield,  Mount,  175. 

Geiranger-Fjord  :  cliffs  of,  160. 

Golf :  respectfully  alluded  to,  63. 

Gratitude  :  a  virtue,  26. 

Graygown,  my  Lady :  her  praise,  iii, 
69,  152,  163,  191. 

Grayling,  50. 

Great  South  Bay,  the,  183. 

Greetings:  their  significance,  3 ;  su 
perior  quality  of  the  angler's  salu 
tation,  5. 

Grey,  Sir  Edward,  33, 140. 

Habits :  the  pleasure  of  changing 

them,  13. 

Hall,  Bradnock,  140. 
Hamlet,  101. 
Hastings,     Lady    Elizabeth:     her 

"liberal  education,"  103. 
"Heart,  A  Contented,"  184. 
"  Heart  of  Midlothian,  The,"  101. 
Henry  Esmond  :  romantic  love  in, 

102. 
Higginson,  Colonel   Thomas  Went- 

worth  :  quoted,  84. 
Honeymoon  :  a  Norwegian,  151. 
Houses :  the  disadvantage  of  living 

in  them,  14  ;  built  by  four-footed 

architects,  208. 

Humour :  as  a  means  of  grace,  69. 
"Hypatia,"  101. 

"  I  Go  A-Fishing,"  142. 
Indolence,  defined,  192;  the  teach- 

ers  of,  195. 
Indvik  Fjord,  164. 
Irving,  Washington :  quoted,  71, 147. 


243 


INDEX 


James,    William :    his   defence   of 

chance,  11. 

James  of  Scotland,  78. 
Jefferies,  Richard :  quoted,  171. 
Jefferson,  Joseph  :  as  an  angler,  51 ; 

as  fisherman,  230. 
Jerkin,  160. 

«•  John  Inglesant,"  101. 
Johnson,    Dr.   Samuel :    his   word 

"clubable,"55;  quoted,  94. 
"Jungle  Books,  The,"  102. 

Kant,  Emmanuel :  his  rules  for  talk, 

61. 

Kariol,  155, 160. 
Katahdin,  Mount,  22 1. 
King,  Clarence :  a  good  talker,  61. 
"King  Lear,"  101. 
Kingsley,  Charles,  139. 
Kinsman  Mountain,  175. 

Lac  h  la  belle  Riviere,  69. 
Lafayette,  Mount,  175. 
Lake  George :  •>.  scene  on,  8. 
Lakes  named: 
George,  8,  154. 
Lac  d  la  belle  Riviere,  69. 
Loenvand,  the,  164. 
Moosehead,  112,  220. 
Pharaoh,  120. 
Rangeley,  114. 
St.  John,  44. 

Lamb,  Charles  :  quoted,  1  ;  his  es 
says,  81,  133. 

"  Land  of  Steady  Habits,  The,"  13. 
Landaff  valley,  175. 
Lang,  Mr.   Andrew :  his  "  Angling 

Sketches,"  141. 

Life :   reflections,   chiefly  upon  its 

uncertainty,  12, 18,  29,  30,  88 ;  the 

philosophy  of  a  quiet  life,  192-194. 

"Little  Flowers  of  St.   Francis," 

quoted,  19. 
Loenvand,  the,  164. 
Long  Island  :  a  good  place  to  cure 

insomnia,  183. 
"  Lorna  Doone,"  101,  141. 
Love  :  romantic  love  not  the  "great 
est  thing  in  the  world,"  102. 


Lovers :  sudden  appearance  of,  in 
the  landscape  in  spring,  94 ;  their 
relation  to  the  landscape,  95 ; 
charm  added  to  the  landscape  by, 
97 ;  society  arranged  for  their 
convenience,  98. 

Lowell,  James  Russell :  quoted,  47  ; 
alluded  to,  133. 

Lucian  :  his  dubious  fish  story,  52. 

Luck :  indispensable  to  fishermen,, 
5 ;  varieties  of,  7  ;  the  charm  of 
trying  it,  9 ;  a  subject  for  grati 
tude,  26 ;  not  to  be  boasted  of,  28  ; 
a  parable  of  life,  29  ;  the  way  to 
make  friends  of  it,  31. 

Luther,  Martin :  his  opinion  of  pike, 
10. 

Lytton,  Sir  Edward  Bulwer,  hia 
fishy  advice,  145. 

"  Macbeth,"  101. 

Macduff,  the  Reverend  Bellicosus, 
62. 

"  Madame  Delphine,"  102. 

Malignancy  :  a  brilliant  example  of, 
18. 

Marriage :  philosophically  consid 
ered,  102-104,  152. 

Marston,  Mr.  Edward,  141. 

Mary,  "Bloody  "  Queen,  78. 

"  Maxims  and  Hints  for  an  Angler," 
139. 

McCabe,  W.  Gordon :  how  he  crossed 
the  Atlantic,  68. 

McCosh,  Dr.  James  :  his  manner  of 
speech,  68. 

Milton,  John  :  quoted,  55. 

Montaigne,  M.  de :  quoted,  title- 
page,  60,  61 ;  variations  on  a 
theme  from,  62. 

Moody,  Martin,  Esq.,  130. 

"  Moor  and  the  Loch,  The,"  138. 

Moosilauke,  175. 

Mountains  :  the  real  owner  of  the, 
176. 

"My  Novel,"  145. 


Nedre  Vasenden :    the  station  at, 
160. 


244 


INDEX 


Newport :  sport  at,  7. 

Nor  cross  Point,  221. 

Norris,  Thaddeus,  142. 

Norway :   a  honeymoon  in,  153. 

"NStreDame,"  101. 

North,  Christopher,  50,  138,  139. 

"  Occasional  Reflections  "  of  Hon. 

Robert  Boyle,  139. 
Odnaes,  155,  156. 
"Ole  'Stracted,"  102. 
Othello,  101. 
"  Owl  Creek  Letters,"  142. 

Parrots :  productive  of  un-Christian 

feelings,  56. 

"  Peace  and  War,"  100. 
Penn,  Richard,  139. 
Peppermint,  75. 
Pike,  10,  86. 
Piscator,  134. 
Plutarch  :  his  fish  story  of  Anthony 

and  Cleopatra,  443. 
Preserves :  for  fish,  85. 
Pride  :  unbecoming  in  a  fisherman, 

28. 

Prime,  Dr.  William  C.,  142. 
"  Procession  of  the  Flowers,  The," 

84. 
Pronunciation,  correct :  as  a  mania, 

G7. 

"  Quo  Vadis,"  101. 

Rabbit :  cotton-tail,  188. 

"Rambles  with  a  Fishing-Rod," 
of  E.  S.  Roscoe,  140. 

Randsf  jord,  153,  154. 

Raphael,  the  Archangel:  his  one 
sided  affability,  55. 

Rauma  :  the  vale  of  the,  168. 

"  Recreations  of  Christopher  North, 
The,"  138. 

"  Redgauntlet  :  "  angling  in,  145. 

Remembrance  :  altars  of,  231. 

"  Rip  Van  Winkle,"  101,  231. 

"  Rise  of  Silas  Lapham,  The,"  102. 

Ristigouche,  23. 

"  Rivals,  The,"  101. 


Rivers,  named : 

Ausable,  228. 

Baegna,  158. 

Bouquet,  163. 

Dove,  30. 

Gale,  174,  229. 

Hudson,  82. 

Lea,  30. 

Marshpee,  51. 

Meacham,  111. 

Metabetchouan,  69. 

Moose,  112. 

Naeselv,  161. 

Natasheebo,  121. 

Neversink,  226. 

New,  30. 

Penobscot,  163. 

P'tit  Saguenay,  27. 

Randsfjord,  153,  154. 

Rauma,  168. 

Ristigouche,  23. 

Saguenay,  27,  28. 

Shepaug,  226. 

Swiftwater,  73, 84,  226, 230, 23L 
233. 

Ulvaa,  168. 

Willowemoc,  226. 
Rob  Roy  :  an  eel  named,  52. 
"  Rod  hi  India,  The,"  140. 
Romola,  101. 
Romsdal,  the,  160,  168. 
Ronalds,  Mr.:  quoted,  53. 
Roosevelt,  Mr.  Robert  B.,  142. 
Roscoe,  E.  S.,  140. 
"  Roundabout  Papers,"  58. 

Sabbath-Day  Point,  9. 

Sage,  Mr.  Dean  :  piscatorial  library 

of,  134. 

Saguenay,  the  Big,  27-29. 
Saguenay,  the  Little,  27. 
Salmon,  25,  50. 

1  Salmonia,"  139. 

'Schuylkill     Fishing    Company," 

Scott,  Sir  Walter  :  quoted,  144. 
Sermon  :  a  good  one,  50. 
Singlewitz,  Solomon:  quoted.  107, 
149. 


245 


INDEX 


"Sketch  Book,"  147. 

Skogstad  :  the  station  at,  162. 

Skydsgut,  157. 

Slosson,  Mrs.  Annie  Trumbull :  her 

"Fishin'  Jimmy,"  142. 
Slumber  Song,  A,  237. 
Smallness :  not  a  mark  of  inferior 
ity,  81. 

Smith,  Captain  John,  80. 
Smudge :    the    art    of   kindling    a, 

217. 

Spearmint,  75. 
Spencer  Pond,  113. 
St.  Anthony  of  Padua,  50. 
St.  Brandan,  50. 
St.  Francis  of  Assisi,  19. 
St.  Peter,  11,  20,  26. 
Stedman,    Mr.   Edmund   Clarence, 

136. 

Steele,  Richard  :  quoted,  103. 
Stevenson,  Robert  Louis :  quotedt 

54,  181. 

Stoddart,  Thomas  Tod,  138. 
Stolkjaerres,  160. 

Storm  King  Club  :  a  festival  of,  82. 
Strawberry,    the :    one    that    God 

made,  76;    imputed  to  England, 

78 ;  wild  and  tame,  80. 
Stuefloten,  167,  168. 
Style  :  the  value  of,  81. 
Summer  Schools :  persons  for  whom 

they  have  no  attractions,  8. 
Sunday  :  fishing  on,  6. 
"  Superior  Fishing,"  142. 
Swiftwater :    a  well-named  brook, 

73. 

Talk  :  anglers  urged  to,  49-51 ;  va 
rieties  of,  58-60 ;  obstacles  to  its 
perfection,  62,  66,  67. 

Taxability  :  defined,  54,  55  ;  a  talk- 
able  person,  56  ;  contrasted  with 
talkativity,  57  ;  not  the  same  as 
eloquence,  58  ;  commended,  60- 
70;  the  fourfold  conditions  of,  62; 
goodness,  62;  freedom,  66;  gayety, 
68 ;  friendship,  70. 

Tarn  of  the  Elk,  the,  165;  trout  in, 
166. 


Telephone :  its  influence  on  man. 
ners,  2. 

Tennyson :  as  a  talker,  67 ;  quoted, 
53. 

Tent :  life  in  a,  15. 

Thackeray,  W.  M.:  quoted,  58. 

Thersites  :  as  a  journalist,  65. 

Thomas,  H.  S.,  140. 

"  Three  Musketeers,  The,"  101, 166. 

Timoleon  :  the  unlucky  one,  28. 

Tobias,  the  son  of  Tobit :  his  adven 
ture  with  a  pike,  86. 

Tommy's  Rock:  a  good  place  for 
blackfish,  7. 

"  Treasure  Island,"  1G6. 

Trees :  why  boys  and  girls  love 
them,  85. 

Trench,  Archbishop,  192. 

Trolley-car  :  the  blessings  of  its  ab 
sence,  17. 

Trout,  51,  53, 145,  161, 198,  203,  220; 
taste  of,  for  flies,  135;  in  Norway, 
161;  in  the  Tarn  of  the  Elk,  166; 
in  the  Rauma  in  Norway,  168;  a 
good  catch,  201 ;  eating  vs.  catch 
ing,  217. 

Twin  Mountain,  175. 

Vacations:  can  be  taken  without 
long  journeys,  13. 

Valders,  the  vale  of,  158,  170. 

Vergil :  quoted,  136. 

Virginia:  talk  in,  68;  its  straw 
berries,  78,  80 ;  bread  in  a  Virginia 
country  house,  168. 

Walton,  Izaak:  described,  29,  30; 
quoted,  28,  29,  76;  his  luck  in 
literature,  131 ;  his  detractors, 
132 ;  Dr.  Bethune's  edition  of, 
142  ;  fishermen  born,  not  made, 
148. 

Warner,  Charles  Dudley :  quoted, 
205. 

Water  :  emblem  of  instability,  8. 

Weather:  a  subject  of  talk,  55,  61; 
various  remarks  on,  15-18,  87. 

Webster,  Daniel :  as  an  angler,  51. 

Wells,  Mr.  Henry  P.,  53, 142. 


246 


INDEX 


Wife:  the  right  kind  of  a,  70. 
Wilson,   Professor  John,   50;    "A. 

M."and"F.  E.  S.,"  138. 
"  Winter's  Tale,  A,"  101. 
Women  wanting  in  natural  ability 

to  fish,  116. 


Woods :  scenes  In  the,  73,  86. 
"  Words  and  Their  Uses,"  192. 
Wordsworth,  William  :  quoted,  8. 
Wotton,  Sir  Henry  :  quoted,  127. 


Youth  :  a  recipe  for  renewing,  82. 


247 


